Dreams of Moonlight
by BlackBird'292
Summary: The war continues to rage. What is right? What is wrong? The line between the two grows ever the thinner as the battles rise and fall. In the midst of the carnage, Eragon finds that there are more sides to a man than he thought there ever was. Fourth Book
1. Ataraxia

Chapter 1: Ataraxia

_Darkness… choking darkness… black all over… drowning… shadows…_

_The scent of blood fresh, fresh and crimson… coughing on it…_

"_Our name is Varaug" said the Shade. "Fear us."_

_Fear us…_

_Fear us…_

_FEAR US!_

Eragon's eyes snapped open as he breathed in deeply. His clothes were drenched in sweat, and he was shivering in the cold clamminess that covered his entire body.

_Blasted hellspawn, _he thought to himself bitterly.

Lying back down on the bed with a sigh, he tried to clear his thoughts. The dark influence that Varaug had left in his mind refused to go away, and lurked in the back of his mind. Only until a few days ago did it start to dissipate. Even so…

Eragon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

It had been a week since the siege of Feinster. The Lady had surrendered, and the elven spell casters were currently struggling to break the vows Galbatorix placed on her. The remaining soldiers and people had grudgingly let the Varden take control over the city, and Nasuada was doing her best to make sure that everything was running smoothly. Overall, it had been successful battle and celebrations were being held everywhere within the Varden camps.

_Celebration. Hah! There is nothing to celebrate about. They should be mourning. _A darker side of his mind muttered.

"Shut up." Eragon groaned, and he reached for a new set of clothing. The voice continued to whisper.

_They should be crying instead of feasting. Wearing black instead of norm. Weeping, for the last rider of old was killed, struck down before the gates of Gil'lead—_

Eragon placed a hand to his head and willed the voices to stop. It seemed that the Shade had done more than just give him nightmares.

"Shut up." He growled. Oromis would not want him to mourn over his death. He would want him to fight on, and fight on he would. He had already shed his tears, and not once more would he cry.

_Oh, but deep down you want to curl up on your bed, sinking into your misery as you look over the gifts he gave you. So you could act like the little boy you really are._

Eragon tiredly belted Brisingr to his waist and walked out into the cool night air. Soldiers greeted him with excited grins, and raised mugs.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!" They chorused.

The rider smiled and waved at them, and politely turned down their offers to make merry together. He had something more important to do. To think.

Moving through the crowds, he noticed with amusement and exasperation that the rumors of the new "Shadeslaying" were spreading like wildfire. People gathered around fires while they eagerly listened to soldiers who claimed to have seen it with their own eyes, eyes widening with each word. One of the more outrageous versions involved the rider reviving the fallen elven ambassador with a kiss, and then both fighting the demon head on with a mix of sorcery and swordsplay.

Eragon tried not to think of what Arya thought about those particular stories.

"So… what really happened?" said a voice from behind him.

The rider sighed. "Not now, Roran. I've—"

"No, no. I want to hear the story from your own lips. A few days ago, it was that you two fought with him for a full hour before Arya killed him as he succumbed to his weariness. Now, it was that you two finished him off in a heartbeat."

Eragon turned around incredulously. "Finished him off in a heartbeat?! I doubt that even Murtagh could have gotten away alive from that monster!"

"That's why I'm asking you for the truth. Even someone like I gets weary after listening to a Shadekilling so many times."

Eragon let a small smile tug at the corners of his lips. "It was not a fight. We were merely trying to stay alive. 'Tis all."

"Is that so? Then the rumors of the heart-warming kiss after the battle were false as well?"

Blood rushed into his face. "Roran!"

"The men were always speculating." Roran said with a smirk. "The young, handsome rider and the elven ambassador with a heart of ice. The fact that the both of you had killed Shades, one after the other, just served to justify their guesses. And, it didn't displease them that you did those heroic acts together."

"Why, I'd--!"

Roran shook his head in mock sadness. "But for the real truth…" he was sniggering now, "is that the hope of Alagaesia, the pride of the Varden is actually just following the woman around like a pup does with his master!"

Eragon stood there, frozen. Then he started spluttering incoherently.

"Roran, you—I… I don't—"

His cousin laughed all the harder. Eragon tried to remain angry at him, but soon, laughter overtook him as well.

It was almost like being back in Palancar Valley again. The two of them bickering like children while they walked through the fields… tossing insults at each other while they roared with laughter…

Then Roran leaned towards him. "About your masters. Are you still…" he said in a quiet voice.

This question didn't surprise him. Still, Eragon did not know how to respond.

"I…" he began. _What should I say?_ He asked himself.

Roran continued to look at him intently.

"…I don't know myself." He said softly.

Roran placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then it means that you've gone through the worst of it." With that, he grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

Eragon touched the place where Roran had placed his hand. Then he smiled, and continued to walk towards his destination.

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When he was back in Carvahall, one of the things he liked most at night was to lie down under his favorite tree and stare up at the stars. As he did so, he couldn't help but wish wistfully that he were one of them. Shining, shining, so far away… with no worries to speak of.

Picking out a medium sized elm, he sat down and leaned down against it with a contented sigh. It was perfect here, on the outskirts of Feinster. No one ever came here.

How long had it been since Carvahall? Two, three years? He couldn't tell. These flights and journeys throughout Alagaesia had long since addled his sense of time. It seemed so very long ago…

Garrow, Brom, Ajihad, Hrothgar, Oromis, Gleadr… so many have died. So many that he cared for, gone into that dark abyss…

There was no sorrow in his thoughts. More like a hollowness that couldn't be filled. What was he fighting for? What were they fighting for, the people who had died in this bloody war?

Justice? Revenge? For their own lives?

What did _he_ fight for?

First, it was for revenge against the Ra'zac. That had been completed, and ever since he joined the Varden that had never been his priority.

Then, what was it?

"Because no one else can?" he muttered to himself. Plucking up a long stalk of grass, he started to wrap it slowly around his finger.

No, that wasn't right. He fought for a different reason.

A drop of water landed on the back of his hand. But he ignored it.

Not for glory, of that he was sure. For those he loved? Definitely, but probably not the main reason.

As long as he remembered, Garrow had told him to do what he thought was right, to have no regrets. The act of doing what one thought was correct… it was a more serious thing than most people knew, he had said.

Was it that what propelled him forward, to meet his destiny with an unwavering determination?

It was pouring now, but Eragon barely noticed it, too caught up in his thoughts. Drops of rain came through the spaces between the leaves, soon drenching him with water.

Doing what was right… was it?

Soon, he drifted off into the sweet softness of dreamless sleep. He did not notice the arms of the person carrying back, nor the fact that she was as wet as he was.

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Brisingr. After I read it, you guys know what my first thought was?

_Hmm. A pretty nice fanfic. Could use a bit of advice though. I'll leave a revie—_

Then…

_Holy mother of god! This is canon?_

**(╯--)╯ ╧══╧**

Yeah… and for some reason Shades have become awfully easy to kill. If a rider and an elf like Arya together could kill a Shade in a few minutes, then Shadeslayers are grossly overrated.

Please review!


	2. Despair

Chapter 2: Despair

Eragon sheathed his sword.

"I won't kill them." He stated, in a firm voice. "And I will stop anyone who attempts to do so."

A surprised rustle passed throughout the soldiers of the Varden. Word spread from one man to another, and soon, everyone was muttering about this strange choice. Roran silenced all of them with a glare.

He then stared at his cousin as if he has lost his sanity.

"Are you mad? We kept them alive only to extract what information we wanted! They are no use after we have completed the task!"

"Then we should have finished both the task and their lives on the battlefield. But as we have not, I wish to pass the judgment to Nasuada. Or anyone who is of high enough rank to decide their fate."

Roran growled as he ran a hand through his beard. "You _know_ what she will say, Eragon. Why keep these men alive for such a short time, while they will only drain our provisions and cause us trouble? The smart, and not to mention right, choice would be to dispose of them here and now. You know that as well."

The young dragon rider furrowed his brow and shook his head. "On the battlefield, a soldier's life is in the hands of the gods. We do not have the authority now. We spared their lives, and that is that until we have the orders to do otherwise."

"Have the elves have only taught you to use logic to defend illogical decisions? Think, Eragon! Think! There is only one correct answer for this."

Eragon crossed his arms. "I refuse to be their executioners. And I will not stand idly by while someone kills them. This is a raid, not a massacre."

The four imperial soldiers kneeling in front of them tried to sneer and chuckle. "Kill us now, you cowardly rider!" one called out through a shaking voice. "Are you afraid to wet your hands with crimson?"

Roran narrowed his eyes dangerously. "See now, Eragon? They are bound by an oath. They won't benefit us in any way if we bring them back. And their family's lives hang on their obedience to the Empire."

"We will bring them back."

"I am the commander of this—!"

Eragon's eyes blazed. "And I am a rider."

Roran opened his mouth as if to make more argument on the matter, but he slowly closed it. Grunting, he motioned for the four men of the Empire be bound.

As he passed by the Shur'tugal, he muttered into his cousin's ear.

"You are far too naïve for your own good, Eragon. This won't bode well for any of us. "

"I am not being naïve." Eragon murmured back. "I am simply doing what I think is right."

Roran sighed and continued on his way. Saphira watched the entire scene from above with unblinking eyes.

_It is your own choice, little one,_ was her only response to his decision.

While it pained Eragon to go against his cousin, this was a thing that he had to do. They were not executioners. It was not to them to decide the lives of these four men.

It surprised him on how much his cousin had changed. A year before, he was still that shy, hardworking boy on the farm who blushed slightly whenever Katrina was near. Now? He looked like a hardened veteran, fierce and skilled in the bloodiness of battle. It was no wonder that he rose in the ranks of the Varden so extremely fast.

_All of us have changed_, he though grimly. Ever since he had found Saphira's egg.

For that, he felt guilt from the depths of his heart.

His cousin turned around on Snowfire, and met his eyes. Roran smiled tiredly and shrugged, to show that he was merely exasperated with his antics and not furious about them.

Eragon grinned back. Though he knew this from only a touch on his cousin's mind, it was good for this to be confirmed in person. Brom and Oromis had taught him well.

Oromis. Gleadr…

Eragon's gaze shifted to the small pack at his belt, which contained the golden dragon's Eldunari, the heart of hearts. Ever since the battle of Gil'lead, he had refused to waken and lay almost unconscious in the jewel. No matter how they tried, Gleadr remained silent.

_We will wake him._ Said Saphira in a firm voice.

_That we will._

After the Varden had gained control over the city of Feinster, the Empire's men started to draw back further into the north. They had clearly not expected the city to be taken so swiftly, and because of this there was confusion among their movements.

And that was why they were here. To strike at the fleeing troops, and seize any supplies that they could.

Quickening his pace, he strode over to Roran.

"Those painless soldiers you had told me about. There weren't any of them in the groups we had attacked. Do have any ideas on where they are?" he asked.

Roran sighed. "You really don't know?" Pointing towards the vague direction of south, he said, "They've been attacking our forces at Feinster and the main Varden camps ever since we broke the city. It's probably the king's idea, to let them fight and die while the majority of his soldiers and supplies escape to the north."

Eragon rubbed his chin. "And that is what we are trying to prevent."

Roran peered down at Eragon from the top of his horse. "Honestly, I don't know why you joined us in the first place. This is a job for men like me, not riders. Don't you have more important things to do?"

Eragon raised his eyebrows. "You're trying to shoo me away?"

A sigh. "No, and you know it."

"It is always fun to tease my beloved and only cousin." The rider said with a smirk.

Roran groaned and turned away from him. Eragon chuckled.

While it was true that Eragon didn't need to be here, he thought that he must. He needed to see for himself how the Empire and the Varden operated besides the major battles he had fought him. Though he had only a little knowledge in the complexities of war, there was always basic—

_Eragon! Behind you!_

The mental cry rang through his mind, and immediately the rider shifted his weight to the side, and turned his head around.

The man leapt towards him, dagger in hand and fire in his eyes. With ease, Eragon grabbed his arms and threw him onto the ground in front of him. Brisingr was out in a flash and pressed against the man's throat.

Roran slid off his horse as fast as he could manage and came to his side. "Blasted hells, he's one of the men we captured. How did he—"

Eragon swore. "He's a damned magician. How could I have missed it?" Turning to his cousin, he said, "Get some healers to check the men who were watching over him. He must have incapacitated them in some way."

The magician sneered. "Fools!" he barked. "Fools, the lot of you! Don't you know that the king is merely toying with you? That he could incinerate you in an instant if he decided to fight? You bone-headed, cross-eyed—"

"Slytha." Eragon uttered quietly, his magical power breaking through the magician's wards as if they weren't there.

The sorcerer slumped down in an instant. Eragon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"It… disturbs me sometimes, to see someone willing to sacrifice their lives for a king like that. Where does their loyalty come from?"

_From a twisted mind._ Saphira growled.

Roran let out a tired smile, like the one before. "Still insist on tying him up and bringing him back?"

The rider hesitated before nodding firmly.

"…Too naïve for your own good." Was Roran's answer.

The rest of the journey went about in silence, all of the travelers lost in their own thoughts.

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It was a cold and quiet night in the Varden camps.

Eragon leaned back in his chair as he started to sort out the numerous requests scattered on his desk. Some asked for his hand in marriage, some asked to cure a sickened relative… the list went on and on. There were those who asked advice for the smallest of things, and there were those sought council for great decisions in life. It sometimes scared him on how they revered what was once a simple farm boy.

_Once_, said Saphira smugly.

_Indeed._ He replied as he sifted through the papers. _And to think, that a few months past I didn't even know how to read._

_We have grown stronger and wiser, more knowledgeable and more cautious._

_Aye._ He rubbed his eyes and continued to study the sheets. _But still not able to defeat Murtagh alone. What is our power worth if we cannot even do that?_

"Eragon." Called a voice quietly from outside of his tent.

The rider looked up from the various pieces of parchment. "Arya Svit-kona." He said in surprise. His mind reached out and scanned his surroundings, but did not feel her presence. _She must have hidden herself._ He thought.

"May I enter?"

"Of-of course." Eragon opened the tent flat, letting the elven princess in. "To what do I owe this honor?"

Arya hesitated for a moment, as if deciding on how to approach the subject.

"I have heard about what happened this morning." She said, previous expression gone and in her usual monotone.

Eragon sighed. He knew that she would come for him eventually.

"About that—" he started to explain.

"No, I am not here to express disagreement to that particular decision. Yet… as a friend, I must advise you to refrain from such acts in the future. Though seemingly kind, they cause nuisances for the people of the Varden and unnecessary pain for those we have captured."

"But—"

Arya's face contained no emotion. At least, Eragon couldn't find any whatsoever. "That is a thing of the past, and not my purpose here. What was brought to my attention, however, was that Oromis did not seem to have taught you about the intricacies of war. Has he?"

"Intricacies?" asked Eragon.

"Yes. As a rider of the Varden, it would be crucial for you to be able to have knowledge of the workings of an army, and how to lead one. It has become even the more important since Nasuada had named you as her successor."

Eragon stared back at Arya. "But… wouldn't it be more important for me to improve my skills? The last time we defeated Murtagh, I had twelve spellweavers at my side and yet I nearly lost. It cannot go on like this forever, and Ellesmera does not have an infinite amount of magicians."

The elf looked back at him blankly. "There is no one to train you in Ellesmera."

The rider frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said that there is no one with the skill and knowledge to teach you now." Arya paced around the tent, and for the first time, looked restless. "The teachings of the riders were considered to be the highest of all, and no house, clan nor class could ever possibly stand before them. You are on your own now, Eragon."

Eragon blinked. "But… if it were skills in magic and blade, you could destroy me easily in a fair fight! Why—"

"What I have is merely decades of training and experience." Answered Arya, without facing him. "That is why I said that you are on your own."

"We don't have time for decades of training!"

"Do you think this is easy for me to admit?" Arya turned around, a hint of anger entering her eyes. "Admitting that we may have no hope, admitting that just Murtagh himself could kill us all, given enough time?"

"I—"

"After sunset, come to my tent and wait there. I will be your mentor." Those were her last words as she turned away, and walked out.

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Aedail-Child of the Light: Really? I originally posted it out as a joke… but to think that so many people thought so as well!

... : My thoughts exactly.

EmeraldArya: Don't worry, this story won't be too short. It'll be longer than all my previous ones. And thanks for the support!

XxXmaximuM-RideRXxX: Yeah, someone carried him back. A certain someone.

Mysterious Old Man: Thanks. :)

Social Bunny: I thought the exact same things. I was waiting for fanfics on the fourth book, and when they didn't come out for a week I thought, "Hell, I'll write one myself." And yeah, there does seem to be a shortage of quality fics these days…

TheFlyingFox: Thanks for the support!

The Sun Also Rises: Yep, Arya will play a very major role in this fic. And I've found that almost everyone thinks that Brisingr is fanfiction-like. CP's getting seriously weird…

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Sigh… though it didn't have much action, Brisingr fleshed out most of the characters, leaving less room for me to develop them (Those who have read my story Shadow Rider will know what I mean.) Anyhow, this will be one hard story to write.

So, readers out there! If you like my story, please leave a review! While it may not take a minute of your time, it will certainly speed up my update speed tenfold!


	3. Trance

Chapter 3: Trance

Blasted dragon. Blasted rider. Blasted sword.

Murtagh lay on his bed, listening to the rain pit-pattering outside his window. Normally, it would have calmed him, and soothe his emotions until he could finally drift off to sleep, away from his troubles.

_Normally, that is._ He sipped some water from the water jug beside his bed.

They could have helped him. They _should_ have helped him. But what did they do? Cower in Du Weldenvarden until now like a pair of frightened rats. Did they know what pain and anguish he had gone through? Did they know how much of a torture it was to hear his dragon wail, every single day? Did they? Did they?

The water jug crashed into the wall, and shattered where he had thrown it.

"Curse you, cowards! What were your names? Oromis? Gleadr? Two bumbling old bastards who didn't even care—"

The rider clutched his head, breathing hard. No, it would not do to be shaken over something like this. His life would go on, with or without them. They were dead anyway. Killed mercilessly by Galbatorix in a blink of an eye.

Laying down on his bed again, Murtagh fought the tears swelling up in his eyes. He had been used to fighting alone for as long as he remembered. He had always cleaved and carved a path through the worst of his life, and never had he given up hope. Never once glanced back at the carnage he had caused, never once mourned when someone dear to him had died.

But now, he had Thorn. Snuffling, crying Thorn…

"Ah, blast it." His scar was beginning to itch. Rolling to the side, he cleared his mind and tried to meditate.

But then someone started to tap on his mind. Murtagh smiled tiredly to himself.

_What is it, Thorn?_

_My tail… it hurts where he bit it off. Could you…?_

_Sure, sure._ He got up from his bed and smoothed down his clothing before walking out of his room. Numerous servants bowed to him as he passed, and Murtagh tried to ignore their fear. It was a pain in itself to walk in the palace halls, with a never ending scream of frightened souls following him wherever he went.

But to his surprise and amusement… sometimes he reveled in it.

As he opened the door to the dragon hold, he sighed as he looked at his shivering dragon. No matter how fierce and reckless he was in battle, he was still a child. For a child to see what he had seen at so young an age—

_Murtagh…_ Thorn rumbled.

_Alright, alright, you little fool. _He walked over to where the tail was and inspected it. Placing his hand over it, he loosed a steady stream of magic to mend the torn flesh.

_It seems that I did not do a complete job earlier. I am sorry for that._

Thorn hummed quietly to himself. _It was in the midst of the battle. There wasn't more that you could do._

Murtagh chuckled. _It is interesting to see you like this, so gentle and so polite while you are a complete terror in war. A berserker, more like._

Thorn cocked his head to the side. _That is the way of the dragonkind._

"I don't see—"

Thorn stiffened. His flesh clenched and loosened. His scales, once like the embers of a dying fire, had turned into a crimson so incredibly bright it was almost as if they were a flame themselves. His claws dug deep into the ground of the Imperial dragonhold.

_Thorn!_

The dragon's bones were slowly cracking apart, then melting together as they expanded. The scales were torn, then slowly mended together as the magic healed it. Blood leaked out of the wounds that were not yet closed.

Ignoring Thorn's weak protests, he shoved himself into Thorn's mind and forced the dragon to share his pain with him. Gritting his teeth, he smirked to himself. _Least I can damn do._ He thought wryly.

It continued to go on. Tendons and muscles stretching to near breaking point, while growing all the while. Flesh tearing apart, then knitting back together. Again. And again. And yet again. Galbatorix's spell showed no mercy. The spell that was the reason for Thorn's unnatural growth.

Finally, it was over. But not before the pair were on the brink of collapse.

Thorn was shivering uncontrollably, crouched on the ground like a frightened kitten. Murtagh was panting beside him, sweat beading his brow.

_Thorn? Thorn!_

The dragon growled and shifted to the side, hiding his head under his wing as he tried to quell the continuous shuddering. See this was like a knife thrust into the Shur'tugal's chest.

_A blasted halberd, more like._ He thought wryly.

It was no use now. He would have to leave Thorn alone, lest the dragon mistake him as an enemy in his state. Sighing, he walked back to his room.

What had ever happened to his life? Though he had never been happy with it, at least it had given him rewards if he worked hard enough. And then, when the gods seemed to have grown weary of plaguing him with troubles and actually given him a future, he was dragged down into the deepest depths of hell.

And damn, they were _still_ dragging him down.

Looking down at the shattered water jug by his door, he repaired it with a simple wave of his hand and a word of power. The rain continued to fall outside.

_Blasted annoying noise, _he thought glumly.

And then, before his eyes, the scene changed.

Blood fell from the sky in drops of scarlet. One after one, splashing against the stones of the castle courtyard. They splattered against his window, slowly flowing down alongside the glass.

A face appeared on the other side of the window. He was wearing a Varden uniform, and a huge gash in the middle of it exposed a horrific wound. Numerous arrows covered his torso.

More faces began to come. Dwarves, men, elves… staring at him with hollow eyes. There were no emotions, nor any hint of accusation. They simply looked back at him. Back at their murderer.

Something was flowing down the side of his face. _Tears?_

He wiped a bit of it with his fingers, and raised it up to his eyes.

It was blood.

The window was cracking. Hands started to press against the glass. Their eyes weren't empty now.

They were screaming, shrieking, the hollow orbs conveying what emotions their sealed mouths could not. Yelling, wailing, for him to die.

Die. Die. Die. Di—

"Lord Murtagh!"

His eyes slowly opened. A hand moved to his cheek.

There was nothing there. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Sitting up on his bed, he frowned. When had he fallen asleep? He himself had no memory of it. And that in itself was an odd thing, as he had never remembered his nightmares before.

Yet, he did now. Very strange indeed. For many weeks, he had been bothered by uneasy sleep and tormenting dreams, but they were always gone, vanishing the moment he opened his eyes.

"Lord Murtagh! Are you in there?"

And who in the name of hell was this persistent person?

"Door's unlocked." He grunted.

The door creaked open, and a maid stepped in and bowed. Murtagh rubbed his head.

"Make it swift." He groaned.

"I had heard noises from your lordship's room as I was passing by. As our oaths and orders, we must seek to know the cause of disturbance if there is one." She still kept her head bowed.

_Poor lass probably too scared to face me._ "Noise?"

"You were screaming, sir."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"Yes. And I have been instructed by the healers to bring this to your lordship." She bowed even lower, and held out a small, corked bottle. "They have heard of your troubles sleeping, and would like to aid you."

Cautiously, he took the bottle and secretly probed it for poisons. Finding none, he examined it suspiciously.

"And what brings about their sudden act of kindness?" his eyes narrowed.

"I do not know, my lord. But it seemed to have been made by a man called Cesim."

Cesim. Ah, so that was why.

"How has he been doing?" asked Murtagh, who pocketed the bottle with no further doubt. If it was Cesim, his only friend in Uru'baen, then there was no need for caution.

"I have not met him in person, but I have heard that he fares well." She glanced up for a fraction of a moment, and the rider thought he saw blue eyes. "But how do _you_ fare, my lord?"

Murtagh was surprised. Usually, people avoided speaking with him unless extremely necessary, and almost none of the servants ever talked to him at all if it could be helped. Despite that…

"I know not." He answered briefly.

"For weeks, you have been screaming in your sleep, my lord. If it were any louder, I fear that the entire castle would have awoken." A hint of humor entered her voice.

Murtagh forced a laugh. "That so?"

"That so." The maid confirmed. It was unmistakable now. There was a shade of barely concealed mischievousness in her words.

Murtagh smiled. "Thank you, and you are dismissed."

She bowed deep, and left. Shaking his head slightly, he slid the bottle out of his pocket and uncorked it.

It had an astonishingly sweet and gentle smell. The scent of crushed berries, mixed with tea of the highest kind. A slight tinge of lavender, and several other herbs that the Shur'tugal could not name.

Without hesitation, he drained it in a single gulp.

The effect was immediate. For the first time in months, he dropped down into dreamless sleep.

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Yeah, he's here. As CP left him out to be a mystery character, I thought I'd bring him back. Bit by bit, anyway.

A tiny view on how Murtagh's life is like. More to come, but not until a few chapters later, I think. We'll be returning to Eragon.

Thank you all for all of your great reviews! I'd love to reply to them all, but I'm close to the brink of dreamland myself, so sorry. Midnight is the only time I can write, after all. I'm nodding off as we speak.

Remember to review!


	4. Tactics

Chapter 4: Tactics

Eragon stirred the stew slowly, deep in his thoughts. He ignored the glances the passing soldiers sent his way, instead focusing his gaze on the pot before him. He ignored the cold air biting at his flesh.

So Arya did not have not hope in him. Though it was true that he felt the same in the depths of his heart, hearing it from another was different. It pulled him from his idealistic illusions, and showed him a hard view of reality.

It was true, after all. How could he, after so many talented and experienced Shur'tugal have tried, make a difference in the state of things? He was but one rider. A single person standing before the might of several hundred dragons that was Galbatorix.

_There has to be some way…_

What could he do when faced with such impossible odds? Here was a foe with centuries training and power. And yet, he had trouble with Murtagh when alone. If he could not best the apprentice, then how could he possibly defeat the master?

_So many questions, and all unsolvable…_

"You cook your own food?" came a voice, surprised.

Looking up, he saw Roran regarding him with a raised eyebrow. "Is that so strange?" he replied back.

"More than you think." Roran took a seat beside him. "You're a rider. People expect food to be brought to you while you do… well, whatever a rider does."

Eragon turned his gaze to the stew. "Normally it is so. But I decided for a change."

"And why is that?"

"No reason in particular. Probably because I tire of the taste of what others make."

"Could you spare some to feed a hungry captain?" Roran asked with a grin.

Eragon rolled his eyes. "Roran, there's only just enough here for me alone. If you had your share, I'd be scraping the remains off the bottom with the spoon. Barely a mouthful."

There was a lull in their conversation as Eragon returned to his previous thoughts, and Roran looked up at the setting sun.

"Are you going to leave for the north?" Roran asked suddenly.

Eragon frowned. "What for?"

"A funeral, perhaps? I am not familiar with elvish customs."

The rider shrugged. "There is a battle here. Oromis would not want me to leave you to yourselves simply to visit his grave."

"Sometimes I really don't know what goes in your mind nowadays. Is it not your own wish to see your master for at least one time before he is buried?"

"I do what is right." Eragon answered.

"Even if it's against your heart?"

Eragon sighed. "Roran, it is from my heart and that of my masters to stay here. But enough of this. You did not come to me to speak only of my masters."

His cousin smirked. "You noticed? Then, I'll be as straight as I can. What is plaguing you?"

"Nothing." Eragon lied. "I am merely… weary."

"Nonsense."

Eragon started. "Pardon?"

"I said nonsense." Roran shifted his eyes to meet his. "I remember you having that look once. That time when I was preparing for Therinsford. You always had that haunted look about you, avoiding my gaze and overall looking as if you wanted to drown yourself. And you rarely seem this way."

The shur'tugal laughed. "So I look like I did then?"

"That, and then some." Answered Roran. He then stood up, and brushed the dirt from his clothing.

Eragon blinked. "And then you are just going to leave like that?"

Roran chuckled. "When you get _that_ look, I know that trying to get anything out of you is a lost cause." Reaching down, he patted his cousin on the head.

"Just be sure that you don't sink too deep in it."

As he watched his cousin leave, he smiled softly to himself.

"…sink too deep, was it?" Eragon murmured.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!" The several men called. The rider looked up, annoyed.

_What is it that they wan—_

He found himself staring into emerald eyes.

Arya. The _other_ Shadeslayer.

Eragon scrambled to his feet. "Arya Svit-kona! What—"

"I have decided that it would be for the best if we conducted your studies in your tent." She said briskly. The elf had a pile of scrolls in her arms.

"In my tent? Now?"

"Indeed. I find mine to be too small for two people."

"Here, let me." Hurriedly taking the scrolls from Arya, he walked into the tent and put them on his table.

"Eragon?" said Arya in a somewhat surprised tone. He groaned. He knew what was going to be her next—

"You cook for yourself?"

—question. Lifting the tent flap, he walked out.

"Many people forget that I was once a commoner." He muttered. "And it seems that you did as well."

The smallest hint of a smirk crossed Arya's face. "Few people look into your past, too blinded by your glory and power as they are. But for me, you will always be that foolish boy who had slayed a Shade through the help of my magic."

"Hypocrite." Eragon said with a laugh, as he extinguished the fire under the pot with a wave of his hand. "Guess that my dinner will have to wait until later."

But then Arya said the one thing he had never expected.

"No… if it is not of any annoyance, would it be of any bother if I joined you in your meal?"

Eragon's eyes went wide. Then he started to splutter.

"But is hardly fit for an elf of noble blood to—"

"In my years of experience, I find that one's cooking speaks volumes about his character." Her lips curved upwards into a smile. "Please, satisfy my curiosity for this one small matter."

Eragon's breath stuck in his throat. What in the hells was happening? Yesterday, she was desperate, angry and saw no future for the Varden; and yet now, she was asking him something that was so extremely unlike herself.

"You're… you are Arya, yes?" questioned Eragon hesitantly.

The princess sighed. "Yes." She replied in the ancient language.

"Well… I guess that it'll be alright."

_Said by the one person who refused even his cousin a bite._ Said a taunting voice.

Eragon's face burned. _Saphira!_

_It is true, and you know it._

The rider managed to ignore his dragon as he handed a bowl to Arya, and prepared one for himself. Then, he steeled himself as he watched her bring the spoon to her lips.

She arched an eyebrow in astonishment.

"It's… surprisingly good."

To say that Eragon was shocked would have been an understatement. He could only accept the praise with a jerk of his head, and turn to his own bowl.

What followed was a silence as the two occupants of the tent continued their meal quietly. Arya seemed to be speculating something; and it was clear even under her emotionless mask that she was confused in some way.

Finally, after they had finished, Eragon could stand it no longer and spoke.

"And what did you perceive?" he asked as casually as he could.

Arya pressed her lips into a thin line. "I do not know. I will have to think of it. In the time between…" A map of Alagaesia was unrolled and spread across the table. "We will begin."

It was a strange thing, having Arya as his teacher. Though Eragon himself had never viewed themselves as equals, this was something different. She was his ebrithil now, and they were apart in status yet closer than they had ever been previously in life.

The lessons drew on. The complexity of war and its inner workings amazed Eragon. Carefully planned nets of spies and contacts, the routes of supplies, and the tactics in which a general should use to ensnare his enemies. Through politics, through battle, and through the hearts of the soldiers.

He grinned wryly. He was sure that, after he had learned all he could, that he would see Nasuada, Jormundur and the others in a much different light.

And so it went on.

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Blanket… warm pillows… (crawls blindly towards bed) my friends…

I hated writing this chapter… emotions between two people have never been my forte. But I hope you all enjoyed it.

And no, this will not turn into a cheesy Era/Arya fic. This is merely something to push the entire plot along.

The real fun starts a few chapters later…

So, what are you people waiting for? Review!


	5. Vows

Chapter 5: Vow

"… then it is settled. We will attack Belatona in a week's time." Finished Nasuada.

Eragon fought the urge to yawn, and mentally congratulated himself for not falling asleep during the meeting. After a few days of Arya's tutelage, he could finally completely comprehend the discussions which had previously been harder than the trickiest of riddles. And through it, he finally knew how long a distance he would have to go before he could lead an army successfully as the generals could.

_Do not be so gloomy. _Chided a voice in his head. _You are growing wiser with each passing day, with a brilliant teacher to guide you; what more could you ask for?_

Eragon sighed inwardly as he bade Nasuada and the other commanders goodnight and walked out. _True, true. But Galbatorix will be making his move soon, Saphira. We do not have all the time in the world._

A few soldiers hailed him as he passed. He smiled back at them, and continued his talk. Saphira was a few leagues away hunting, but he could hear her with little effort.

_We now know that Galbatorix relies on the Eldunari for power. However, it almost makes no difference to our current situation. We cannot steal them, as they are surely almost as well protected as the third egg. And there is no way we can sever his connection with them._

_And yet understanding our opponents remove the aura of invincibility that has long been their best and most effective defense against challengers. For the first time in our lives, we know what we are facing against. And that itself is something that most riders before had no knowledge of._

_And yet… does that truly make a difference?_

_We need all the differences there are, little one._

Eragon made his way towards his tent, deep in his thoughts. A week until the Varden lay siege on Belatona. He would have to ask Arya for a map of that particular city—

He frowned. There was a presence in his tent, familiar, but one half shielded so that he could not recall it from his memory. It wasn't one of the elven spellcasters, and yet the mind was certainly tinged with magic. One of the Du Vrangr Gata, perhaps?

No, he decided as he edged towards the entrance of his tent. This mind was far too deep and complicated to be human. He edged Brisingr slightly out of its sheath.

"Shadeslayer?" There was a cold chuckle. "'Tis I. Nothing to be afraid of."

His back stiffened at the sound of her voice. Hiding his fear and distaste behind a smile, he entered his tent where he saw the little girl sitting upon his bed.

"Is there anything I can help with you with, Elva?" he asked, as kindly as he could.

"Do not speak to me in that way." She replied dryly. "Thanks to your curse, I am not the child you think I am."

The rider bowed his head in shame. "My apologies, if I were to—"

"Spare me those worthless apologies, Shadeslayer." She said in a bored tone. "I have come to you for a reason. If you wish to hear it, then please do so; if you are disgusted by my person, I shall leave immediately. Which will it be?"

_She is serious._ Said Saphira quietly. _It would be for our good to listen to her words._

_Of course I know. _Eragon snapped. _And besides that, I will never chase a child out my door no matter what she says she is._

"I would gladly listen to what you want to say." Eragon responded. "Would you like some tea?"

"I am sorry," said Elva with a smirk. "but I won't be here for long. And if you keep yourself in the state you are now, you won't either."

The rider blinked. "By that you mean…?"

"If you wish for my advice," she said, ignoring his previous question. "I would like you to swear a vow to me. My services are not free."

_I do not like the look in the young one's eyes._ Whispered Saphira. _It shines of cunning and malice._

_But there is no lie in them. _Eragon murmured back. _Yet, I do not think that we should give our oaths carelessly to others. Come back Saphira, quickly. Something must be amiss for Elva to demand such a high price._

_Of course, little one._

"What oath do you want of me?" Eragon asked, keeping his face impassive. "And this 'advice' of yours… is it worth one of my vows?"

"Certainly." Elva spoke casually. "And what I want of you? Is that you will heed one request of mine, without question, in the near future. As you would obey an order from your liege."

Relief flooded Eragon. "One request? Elva, I would do a hundred things for you if it could correct the spell that I had—"

"So you agree?" Elva raised a slim eyebrow. "Swear it to me, then."

_Eragon, she is planning something. I am sure that—_

_But it is the only thing I can do for her. _Eragon replied. _I will do it. One single request is something that I will not hesitate to do._

_But…_

_There is a debt to be repaid. I will do it, even if she did not offer her piece of advice._

Turning to Elva, he uttered the oath in the ancient language, careful not to make any mistakes as he did before. The girl seemed to be pleased.

She clapped her hands together. "Good, good. Just in time, too."

"In time for what?"

"My advice. Turn around, would you?"

Hesitantly, Eragon did as he was told.

At first, he was confused. Then, he heard the slight, almost unobservable sound of tent fabric being ripped apart.

Out of pure reflex, he managed to catch the enchanted blade that had been spinning towards him. If he had been facing the other direction, he would have never noticed it.

There was no feeling of dismay, nor the frustration of failure from what Eragon could glean from the three well hidden minds. Like emotionless shells, they simply tore down a larger space from the tent wall and began entering with calculating movements.

They were ordinary looking soldiers, dressed in the garb of a Varden footman. But they were definitely trained assassins. Every step of their feet, every move of their feet left no openings and positioned themselves in the best positions for a swift attack. They ignored Elva, concentrating their every sense on the Shur'tugal.

Eragon's mind went immediately to Saphira.

_Notify Arya and the other elves about this._ He said, trying to remain calm as the three men circled him. They had already partially surrounded him with frightening efficiency. _They have wards. It will be a hard fight if I have to do this alone._

_I will. Be safe, Eragon._

The assassins leapt forwards. Brisingr was drawn out of the sheath like a hungry flame, blue fire licking at its edges. Their blades clashed in a scream of steel and sparks.

The three soldiers worked as one. They never left a route for escape, and their movements never interfered with another. Their movements were merciless and deadly, and it was with only the greatest effort that Eragon could prevent the weapons from piercing him. In the cramped room, for all his elven strength and magic, the rider found that there was a chance that he could die here.

Not like heroes in well known epics. Not like famed warriors, dying on the battlefield soaked in their blood.

Simply a life ended because of a few assassins.

One of the swords slashed him in the side, leaving a long mark. Blood leaked out of the shallow wound.

_Blast it! _He swept his sword furiously in a wide arc. The men slid back to avoid it, and resumed their attacks once more.

Eragon grimaced as the three swords of his attackers drove towards him at the same time. Brisingr met them with inhuman speed, eager for the taste of flesh; but a single blade slipped passed his defenses.

Thinking quickly, with his other hand he pulled his hunting knife out of his belt and blocked the blow with a wince. The man jerked in surprise.

From the corner of the room, Elva clapped. "Excellent, Shadeslayer. I knew that it was right for me to tell you about this. Your duels are never dull."

With a whirl of his sword, Eragon split apart the assassin's body with a vicious slash, taking advantage of the man's momentary hesitation. Without pausing to stop, Brisingr gleamed as it flashed through the air, dripping in blood as it entered his companion's heart.

Twisting around in a fluid movement, he removed the sword from the man's chest, and his hunting knife went into the throat of the final assassin. The lifeless bodies crumpled on the floor, crimson liquid pooling from their wounds

"Eragon!" Arya and the rest of the spellcasters sprinted into the tent, weapons drawn.

The rider smiled weakly as he tried to regain his breath. "I finished them." Holding a hand over his injury, he muttered, "Waise heill."

The gash healed with no trouble. Panting, he sat down on one of the chairs in his tent that was not dirtied by blood.

Roran came hurrying into the tent as well. "Eragon, I heard from Saphir…" his voice trailed off, seeing the blood splattered across the floor and the inside of the tent. "I see that I've come a mite too late to be useful."

Blodhgarm had a strange expression on his face, one torn between shame for his failure of protection and the other of pleasant surprise. To what, Eragon did not know.

The elf looked over the corpses. "Shadeslayer. I wish to examine these bodies more closely to find who out enemy is. As the signs suggest, there may be a traitor in out midsts."

Eragon looked up. "A traitor, you say?"

Blodhgarm bowed. "There is not one way that I can think of to infiltrate the Varden camps to this degree through normal means. I say it as a follower of the wolf, masters of stealth and cunning."

"Very well then. I leave it to you." The rider got up from his chair wearily. "Roran? Would you mind if I…"

"Of course." Replied his cousin immediately. "Before they clean this up, you can come to my tent to rest yourself."

"I am grateful. And now that…wait, where is Elva?"

The dragon brow had vanished yet again into the dark reaches of the night.

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I really, really shouldn't be doing this. For the sake of all that's holy, the exams are coming next week!

But I really wanted to update. So here you are, and enjoy.

I thank all the people that left me those wonderful reviews!

And for those who didn't... press the button, please. It wouldn't hurt, would it?


	6. Warning

Chapter 6: Warning

"--the elves have seized Gil'lead," Nasuada continued, "and are now planning to take Bullridge as well as gain control over the northern parts of the Ramr river. If all goes well, they will have finished this task in a month's time."

"If all goes well." Replied Arya, expressionless. "Murtagh and his dragon have been called north to battle against my kin, and even as we speak Galbatorix is drawing more and more soldiers to aid the red rider. There will be hard battles."

Nasuada nodded. "Indeed. Though the elves are great fighters, against such a difference in numbers they will be faring less well than before. And because of this, we will have to act swiftly. The siege of Belatona will have to succeed in less than four to five days, and almost immediately afterwards we will move on to Dras Leona. Galbatorix will have little time to organize his forces to fight on two fronts effectively."

"It is the best course of action as we see the situation now." Agreed Jormundur.

Eragon shifted slightly in his seat, but said nothing.

"But… this does not seem right." Muttered King Orrin. "Any sane person would be doing what we are planning to do. In all my studies on Galbatorix and warfare, I have discovered one thing: he may be mad, but he's one of the best tacticians Alagaesia has ever seen. He will be waiting for us, and he will destroy us if we do not move cautiously."

"And yet if we wait, he will gain the upper hand that we have worked so hard to obtain. For the first time in many years, we are truly on the offensive. If we do not move now, the confidence that our people have gained will fade into doubt, and eventually—"

The rider watched the debate silently, thoughts running through his mind at a quick pace. All of them were right in some way, and their arguments were convincing to those who heard them; and while he agreed that they should begin as soon as possible, he also knew that the Black King had much more than just a vague idea of their plans.

"Those soldiers that Galbatorix created." He began. The others in the tent ceased in their talks and turned towards him. He pushed down the nervousness that rose in his heart, and spoke.

"Once he has learned of the astounding effect those painless soldiers have against our men, he will be making more. He will not be sending any to the north; the elves have the ability to counter this tactic through their own skill. He will send them to combat the combined force of ours in the south. It will eliminate his disadvantages, and it will pose a major threat to our men."

Jormundur looked grim. "I have contemplated this particular problem of ours, but it came to me as a passing thought as I do not know the intricacies of magic well enough to think about them. Does anyone here have a solution?"

"It is a problem that I have already sent Trianna and her men to solve through their own means. If we are lucky, then our magicians will be able to think of a spell to dissolve the enchantments. If we are not… I will simply have to devise a way for our soldiers to combat them." Nasuada sighed. "It will be harsh for us indeed, if it is so."

Eragon frowned, lines creasing his brow. "I have thought of two ways. The first, and most obvious, would be to use Galbatorix's trick against him."

Nasuada shook her head. "It is out of the question. I had discussed the matter with your cousin once, and he was of the same opinion. And we cannot force our men to do such a thing, lest we lose their loyalty."

The rider nodded slowly. "I know. I was thinking of a more flexible approach, such as strengthening a group of soldiers in some way or another with magic. But that would be currently out of our reach, as we do not have much time. The second way would be to ask Queen Islanzadi to provide us with some elves of hers."

"I do not think that she will do so, seeing the circumstances at this moment." Said Arya quietly. "But I will request this of her. If the war goes well for the elves, she may agree."

"Let's hope she will." Muttered Jormundur.

King Orrin laughed bitterly. "The majority of the men do not know it, but we are in a much tighter spot then they think we are in. The string of victories has given them confidence, and that is good and well. Yet, the Empire still has numerous advantages against us, and it is a personal feeling of mine that Galbatorix is simply toying with us before he crushes us all into oblivion."

Nasuada chuckled. "While it may be so, keep that thought to yourself, your majesty. If we do not want our people to lose faith, then we must not lose any ourselves. Now… if there are no more problems to discuss, I suggest that we return to our respective duties. It will be a busy week for all of us."

"Aye." Grunted Jormundur, standing up from his seat. The King of Surda murmured an agreement and stood up as well.

"The best of luck for the Varden, Surda, and all the people of Alagaesia." Orrin smiled tiredly after he spoke, and walked out. Jormundur followed, and soon the tent was empty except for the three who stayed behind.

Eragon turned towards Nasuada. "You wished to speak to us in private, my liege?"

"Yes." The leader of the Varden walked over to a small table and pulled out a scroll. Spreading it out, she said, "I have dealt with the various problems that have come after the attempted assassination. I have instructed the Du Vrangr Gata to remove the memories of the event from the passing guards, as well as search the minds of all the captains."

"And the results?" asked Arya.

"They found nothing whatsoever." Nasuada said with a sigh, placing the scroll back to its original place. "I have been considering the possibility of people in the council or other high positions conducting this treachery… but it would be unwise to search their minds now, when the scales of power have finally balanced. However, I will order my men to keep a close watch on them in the future."

Eragon ran his hand through his hair. "And from what you have told us before, Jormundur does not know of this. Neither does Orrin, correct?"

"It would be unnecessary for them to know, as that will merely sow dissention. I have already posted my spies among their men. If they find anything, they will take care of it without creating a ripple."

Eragon bowed. "Thank you."

Nasuada grinned. "And finally, as a friend, I wish you good fortune and luck. Also," her tone grew more serious, "never, ever let your guard down. We wouldn't know what we would do if you suddenly died."

"Indeed." Said Arya quietly.

"It will take more than trickery to best me." Eragon smirked and touched the hilt of his sword. "My new blade will make sure of that."

"Ah. Brisingr, was it?" A childish curiosity crept into the woman's eyes, but it was quickly pressed down by another force. "I ache to know about it, and how you have gained such a magnificent blade; but I fear that we do not have such times at the moment. Another time, perhaps?"

"Another time." Promised Eragon as he walked out of the tent as well, Arya following him. "Definitely."

The sky was a pewter gray, doing nothing to improve the moods of the numerous soldiers rushing about on various tasks. Swords were being repaired and reforged, shields remade and strengthened, and the entire camp was full of activity and noise. In a few days time, the army would be moving on to Belatona.

Blodhgarm joined them like a shadow. "Shadeslayer." He purred.

Eragon raised an eyebrow. Blodhgarm looked surprised for a moment, and then an amused look came over his face.

"I apologize. Shadeslayer_s._" He added with a gallant bow. "It would be rude to ignore the fact that there are two here who have done the great deed."

The rider thought he saw a hint of a grimace flit across the princess's features, the most human expression he had seen on her face in a long time.

"There is no need for that title, Blodhgarm-vodhr." Arya said, voice somewhat strained. "I do not truly deserve it, after all."

"If there was ever someone who did not deserve to be called that name," Eragon looked up at the grey clouds above. "it would be me. But whatever the cause, those monsters were killed, and sent to hell where they belong. And that is what truly matters, no?"

"Wise words, Shur'tugal." Blodhgarm's fur rippled slightly in the windless air. "But the ones who struck the finishing blow deserve to be respected nevertheless."

"Shadeslayer…"

Eragon whirled around, his hand flying to Brisingr. But what he saw was a crippled swordsman, leaning on a crutch. His eyes were covered by a black cloth, and yet he moved unhindered by it. A smirk twisted his lips.

"It has been a long time, Shadeslayer." He whispered. "A long time since you met me in that filthy healer's tent. A long time since I told you about the lights. A long time since I told you of your brother."

Blodhgarm immediately moved himself in front of Eragon, but the rider waved him aside.

_He is that soldier from before…_ Quelling his uneasiness, Eragon stood to face him.

"And what business do you seek with me now?" Eragon demanded. "Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

The man cackled, and scratched at his blindfold. "Tell you? Nay, _warn you._ Lights are gathering in different places, and the murmuring of the world grows ever more urgent. Every passing day you shine with light, and yet the King moves towards his final goal, the thing that has been his intention since his rebellion against the elders. Move with care, Shadeslayer, for one day you will find yourself strengthened with power that is not yours."

"What do you mean?"

"A solved riddle is not an interesting riddle." The man chuckled, and started to limp away. "Fare thee well, Shadeslayer. I am placing my money on you."

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Passerby No. 1: So, how did you do on the exam?

Me: What exam? (looks away evasively)

…truth is, I got royally screwed. Very, very badly. If I was old enough to drink I would be drowning myself in alcohol now.

Well, that's a thing of the past. If you can, please review so it'll lift my spirits from the bottomless depths of despair…


	7. Paths

Chapter 7: Paths

Murtagh sat on his bed silently, ignoring the many gashes covering his entire body and the blood dripping onto the carpet. His clothes were torn and ripped, and the remains of his longbow lay in pieces at his feet. Thorn seemed to be barely conscious.

_Utter defeat. _Galbatorix had said to him. _I have not been so disappointed in you since your escape from the palace, Murtagh Morzansson._

The rider coughed, than grimaced as crimson liquid flowed out between his lips. More than a few ribs had been crushed in the battle, along with a few fingers on his left hand.

_A Shur'tugal, armed with four Eldunari and the finest blood of Morzan failed to triumph in a battle. It is simply ludicrous. The red rider of Empire sent fleeing by the elves. His dragon nearly killed. What would the people say about your humiliation?_

Murtagh shifted his weight to his side, and immediately breathed in sharply as one of his wounds cracked open. Yet another red stain appeared on his tunic.

_I have tried, time and time again, to draw out the talent that your father possessed. And time and time again, I have failed. Where is it, Murtagh? Where it that power the enemies of the Empire had learned to fear, learned to flee from?_

Slowly, he unsheathed Zar'roc and brought it before his eyes. The black mark on the crimson blade glared tauntingly back at him, searing the symbol into his mind.

_Where is it, Murtagh? Where is it?_

His hands were trembling as he held the weapon. Shaking.

_Where is it?_

"Quiet!" he screamed. With a yell of frustration and agony, he flung the blood-red sword into the wall. It sank to the hilt with a dull sound.

_I had so much hope for you, ever since you were a boy. Morzan was my friend, my best soldier and my winning card in the war. I was devastated when he died. Do you know how joy-filled I was when I heard that his son was alive and well, contrary to the rumors? Do you?_

Breathing hard, he clutched his head, trying to ignore the dark, muttering voice inside his head. The whispers of a snake, he told himself. Just the whispers of a snake.

_If you continue to be like this, you will never be able to reach the threshold that has been your dream since childhood. To be stronger than your father, yes? If you crave power, you will be able to do so. To be able to be like your father, in body and in mind._

"I… will not be… my father…" Murtagh uttered through gritted teeth.

_I see that look in your eyes. There is defiance, but not directed to me. It has long been changed, now placed towards the thing you have been fighting against every moment of your life. Your fate._

Bastard.

_You know it. You whimper about how you hate who you are. You cry on the cruelties of your life. But you have long since given up on trying to disobey me. _

Bastard.

_Instead, after all this time, you have chosen to embrace it. Embrace your new power, a power that makes you a lord, makes people insects under your feet._

Bastard

_Embrace it more, Murtagh. As your father did. Like father, like son._

Bastard!!

He blinked. The chair in front of him had been smashed into pieces. It seemed that he had held it, and repeatedly slammed it against the floor. Again and again and again--

"Lord Murtagh?"

The dragon rider glanced up slowly. The door creaked open and there was a gasp.

"Lord Murtagh! What happened to you, to wound you to this degree?" The woman's voice was vaguely familiar. But his eyes could not focus well enough to discern the face. He thought he saw blue.

_The maid from before… perhaps?_

"Why haven't you healed them yet? I'll get the healers—"

"Fool." He muttered wearily. "If these could be healed by magic I would have done so long ago."

There was a silence. Then, the voice said, "Elven magic?"

"Of course." With a groan, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. "And you are not needed here. Get out, if you please."

There was a rustle. "His majesty ordered me to take care of your wounds. At first, I thought that they would be minor, seeing that I can only perform the most rudimentary of spells, and his majesty knows it… but it seems that I was mistaken."

"Get out. It is an order, and you shall obey it."

"Unlikely, Lord Murtagh. His majesty's words are law, and we are all vowed to obey them." There was another rustle of fabric, and something cool was pressed onto his wounds, wiping away the blood. "And as I was once a healer, it is not my nature to leave someone in this state alone, rider or no."

"I will live. And that is all that matters." He hissed.

A strip of fresh cloth was wrapped, layer upon layer, around his arm. "No, from my experience, and from what I have seen of your situation… you would have died in a few hours if I hadn't come. A certain death."

Murtagh choked, and his right eye cracked open a fraction. "_What?_"

"You had lost too much blood, and your magic completely used. There would be no chance if no one helped you." She said solemnly, without emotion.

"_Why—_"

She burst out in laughter. "Lord Murtagh... so you are one to be fooled so easily?" She said in a teasing voice. Murtagh's shoulders tensed, then sagged down.

_Who is this woman?_

"And as a healer, you deem it necessary to do something like that?" The rider sighed.

"You will live. And that is all that matters." She said, mimicking his previous tone. "But what concerns me is the fact that you did fall for that simple jest. It not only shows that you are wounded heavily, but also on the edge of rational thought."

"And what if I am?"

"Then it means that all is not well." A soft hand forced him upright and took off his tunic. "What brutality. The 'fair folk' don't deserve their name."

Murtagh chuckled. "That they don't."

"And as a passing note, it will be best for you if you recover quickly. Galbatorix plans to send you to Dras Leona in two day's time." She started to wrap the bandages around his chest.

He cursed. "And pray tell, why is that?"

"The blue rider's master has met his end at your hands. If that rider is as naïve and ruled by emotions as you have described him to the king, he will want to meet his mentors one final time. Yes?"

Murtagh nodded quietly. If Eragon was still like before, he would definitely do so. He could still remember the way Eragon had stood at Brom's grave. Silently, silently, standing there from when the sun rose and laterset.

He knew that feeling well. Very, very well. So many times that it was like a part of life to him, to watch loved ones die. But even so, each was as painful as the last, if not more agonizing, more aching to the heart…

There was a pat on his shoulder.

"It is done," The woman laughed lightly, stood up and bowed. "Lord Murtagh. Though I cannot heal the more serious wounds with magic, this shall suffice to keep you alive for two days. Then, you can try to heal them with your spells."

"Then you are dismissed." Murtagh stood up from his bed. "And please, if possible, do not disobey my orders again. Even if I truly would have died."

"I will keep that in mind in the future. Ah, yes… I almost forgot." Reaching into her bag, the woman pulled out a small, corked bottle. "Cesim's."

Taking it from her hands, Murtagh probedthe potionfor poisons and like before, found none. He grinned.

"You have my gratitude."

The woman smiled. But as always, she never did let the rider get a full glimpse of her face.

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So… who is she?

Is it that I have reached my wits end, and created the ultimately overused "Galbatorix daughter"?

Is it that she is a "Mary Sue" with a tearful story to share with us all?

Is it that she is just a random passerby just to prevent Murtagh from being too angsty?

Questions, questions, questions…

Anyhow, I'm really sorry for the delay. Had a few things that I had to do this week.

So, if you enjoyed it or you have a comment, please review!


	8. Warrior

Chapter 8: Warrior

"Too slow."

With a single push of Eragon's blade, Roran was sent staggering back a few feet until he was able to stand still. Pushing his sweat drenched hair out of his eyes, he cursed.

"It's that you're too damned _fast_, Eragon. Why don't you slow down a little?" He panted as he readied the hammer in his hands. "The rest of us aren't riders."

"I'm only using half my speed and one third of my strength, Roran. The reason why you cannot keep up with my attacks is because you have too many wasted movements." Eragon held the dulled practice sword and slashed swiftly through the air. "Try again."

It was nighttime in the Varden camps. Soldiers hurried from one place to the other, making preparations for tomorrow's continued journey to Belatona. Some sat around campfires, exchanging battle stories. The calm before a storm.

Roran took a step forwards, and with a grunt he raised the weapon over his head and brought it down with extraordinary power. It would have shattered most shields easily, crippling the soldiers behind them with brutal force. But Eragon sidestepped the blow with no trouble and flicked his sword up to his cousin's chin.

Sighing in frustration, Roran dropped his hammer on to the ground and started kneading his temples furiously. The campfire crackled.

"Why can't I land a blow on you? Is the gap between us so great to this extreme?" Roran groaned as he felt the bruises that Eragon had left on him. "So large that I won't win against you no matter what I do?"

The rider shook his head.

"I've never seen a normal person wield the strength I've seen in you, and it is frightening in its own way. But no one has tutored you properly on fighting against an opponent that is near your own skill, or above it. That is your only weakness now, and it is possible for you to surpass most seasoned swordsmen if you train hard."

"Train hard, eh?" Roran grasped the handle of his hammer and pushed himself to his feet. "Will it really work, seeing how much time we have?"

"Every moment counts. While it is true now that you can defeat many soldiers with pure bravery and savage might, it would not last against one who has been trained, or is of another race. You've seen how you fared against the Ra'zac."

Roran grimaced at the memory.

"And it all comes back to this. Roran, you rely too much on your strength when delivering blows. And because you think me a strong enemy, you often use too much power, causing imbalance or obvious attacks to the trained eye." Eragon set his sword by his side, point down. "Again."

Roran moved cautiously towards the rider, approaching him with a slow pace. Just as he was going to raise his hammer, a voice stopped him.

"Stronghammer."

Roran turned around, and his eyes widened. "Ary…" he hesitated, unsure of how to address the elf. "Lady—"

Eragon bowed his head. "Arya Svit-Kona."

The princess walked towards the two with graceful, smooth strides that reminded Eragon of swaying grass in a light breeze. She nodded a greeting to the rider, and turned to Roran.

"Arya would be fine, Stronghammer." She replied. "I was watching from the distance, and I must say that I am impressed. Few men can match your speed or strength."

Roran bowed awkwardly. "You… you flatter me, Lady Arya."

"I speak only of the truth. Yet…" She frowned slightly, and to the surprise of the both of them, leaned towards Roran and whispered into his ear. Eragon watched them, perplexed.

Roran's brow furrowed. "My lady—" Arya simply shook her head and added a few more words.

As if making a hard decision, Roran turned to Eragon.

"Let us start. Lady Arya was kind enough to lend some advice." Shifting the hammer's position in his hands, Roran settled into a lower stance. "This time, you will be the one who loses."

The rider raised an eyebrow. _What in Alagaesia did Arya tell him?_ But he gripped the sword tighter and started to watch his cousin closer than before.

Then, as if nothing changed before, Roran charged forwards with a roar. There were dozens of openings that he left unguarded, and a skilled warrior would have taken his life in a flash.

Eragon sighed. It looked as if his efforts to teach him had been for naught. Sliding to the side, he held up his blade.

"Ugh!"

Roran had slipped on the uneven ground. Reacting instantly, the rider went forwards to catch him, arms outstretched.

A cloud of sand billowed in front of his face. He blinked away the grains, and choked as copious amounts entered his throat. Before he could move, a swift kick knocked him off his feet and the hammer was placed on top of his head.

"My victory, Eragon." Came a voice from above him.

Brushing the dirt and sand off of his face, he was pulled upright by Roran's muscular arm. After coughing for a few moments, he stood up and stared accusingly at his cousin.

"That… was a low blow." He managed to choke out.

He shrugged. "If it were a real battle, it would have been me who survived and won, while you died. And that is all that matters."

"But—"

"Eragon." Said Arya quietly.

The rider sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I… I know."

"I have told you before, in our lessons. You are far too gentle to your enemies, and oftentimes too naïve. You trust others too much. In many ways, you need more tutelage than your cousin does."

Eragon looked away from the elf's penetrating gaze. "Is giving people the trust they deserve a bad thing?"

"In times of war, no one deserves your complete trust, no matter how close they are to you." Arya looked at him directly in the eye, emerald orbs becoming cold. "Keep that in mind, Eragon."

"You already know that I disagree. And I will, until something proves me otherwise." Eragon stabbed his practice blade into the soft earth. "No matter how bloody the battles become."

Arya's eyes grew colder. "Then I hope that the day you realize your foolishness arrives swiftly. Otherwise, we might find you dead before it."

A steely silence appeared between the both of them. Eragon was looking towards the ground, fighting to hold his tongue and refrain from speaking more. The elf's features appeared calm, but the intense fire in her eyes said that she was anything but. She was furious.

Unbidden, the memory of Arya killing the wounded hawk in the woods of Du Weldenvarden flashed through his mind. He clenched his fists tighter.

"Do you know that by remaining the way you are, you are promising those people you care for a quick death?" Arya said expressionlessly. "Do you not think that Galbatorix wouldn't use this trait of yours against you?"

"I would die first before anyone does." Eragon replied, turning his back to Arya. "That I promise."

There was a pause.

"I wish you hadn't." Footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew that the elf had walked away.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, he gazed down at the practice sword. It remained where he had stuck it, standing tall and straight from the ground like a grave marker.

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Blodhgarm raced through the trees, eyes narrowing to slits as he looked at the horseman in front of him. He was certainly a spy; the elf had been watching him for a more than a few days. His mind was well shielded, and it was impossible for Blodhgarm to forcibly extract the information. But as the man returned to his master, all one had to do was follow him, to see who his traitorous fiend of a master was.

And to kill the bastard where he stood.

The rider continued on, oblivious to the fact that he was being followed. After a few turns in the forest, he galloped into a clearing, where a dark figure stood, almost completely concealed by the shadows cast by the trees.

"So you have completed your task?" The voice was chilling, even to the elf. He slid a short knife out of his belt, and lengthened his claws. He would have to be swift.

"I have, master." The man kneeled.

"Then… where is he?" the voice whispered. It was like the hiss of a serpent. "Not somewhere too far, I hope?"

The spy bowed his head lower.

"He has followed, and is behind me as we speak."

Blodhgarm's eyes widened. Gritting his teeth, he sprang from where he had hidden himself and leapt towards the shadowy outline in the darkness.

His blade sank into flesh.

The man who had been his bait stared back at him impassively with hollow orbs, paying no heed to the knife in his torso. Those were not the eyes of a person who was truly alive. Disgusted, the elf drew back his knife.

The corpse slumped down onto the ground, and Blodhgarm sheathed the bloody blade.

"You aren't even going to attempt to fight?" asked the voice in a mocking tone. "Content to wait for your death?"

The elf sighed. "I know who you are now, and I know that you are not one who is dull enough to let prey escape so easily. The very fact that you exposed your face is the confidence that I will never make it out of here alive."

The figure clapped. "Excellent, Blodhgarm-vor. I now know that I was not mistaken in deciding to kill you."

Even as the hundreds of enchanted arrows pierced his body, Blodhgarm's heart was tranquil as he raised his head and searched the skies for the one thing he wish to look at before his death.

The moon shone back at him, its beauty as breathtaking as it had ever been in his long, long life. It was not yet completely full, like a broken disk that one had forgotten to repair.

His last thoughts were on how much of a pity it was.

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I killed him.

It's not like I hate him, or dislike him in anyway. He just seemed like someone who would die as a sacrifice, and so I did.

About the tension between Eragon and Arya… it will be explained in coming chapters. There is a reason to everything, you know.

And please review!


	9. Assassination

Chapter 9: Assassination

Eragon slammed his fists onto the table.

"How could this have happened?" he whispered.

No one in the tent answered his question. The elves were emotionless and silent, as if they had suddenly placed masks upon their faces. The Council of Elders was whispering to each other in hushed tones, fear carved into their faces. Jormundur continued to look impassively in front of him.

Nasuada sighed.

"I… do not know, Eragon. This clearly points to treachery of some sort, and conducted by one who is not an easy foe to combat. The elves had told me earlier that Blodhgarm was considered as one of the most accomplished fighters and magicians in the whole of Ellesmera. It would have been an extraordinarily clever or skilled sorcerer who planned his death. Skilled to the point of the impossible."

Eragon turned to face his liege, fire in his eyes. "This happened in a forest not ten bowshots away from our camps. He mocks us. Yesterday, it was Blodhgarm who fell. Today, it could be Jormundur. Tomorrow, it could be me. That have tried once, and they will not hesitate to try again."

"Calm yourself, Eragon." Spoke Arya quietly from the corner of the tent. "Control your grief."

The rider forced a loud, biting chuckle. "A companion of ours, _a friend_, was just killed within a league and we did nothing to stop it."He gazed towards the elf. "Are you one so cruel that you would look over this matter as one would look at a wounded hawk?"

Arya's green eyes flashed, and her hand made a sliding motion towards the hilt of her sword.

A sudden roar interrupted all of their thoughts. The council members cowered and covered their ears, and Eragon looked up to the tent fabric above, knowing that his dragon was there outside.

_Silence, all of you!_ Saphira's words echoed through all of their minds. _This is not a time to be arguing, or feeling dismay over things not done. There is time yet to do what is right._

"And pray tell, what would that be?" demanded Umerth, hiding his trembling voice. "The Empire has gained the ability to kill our best men at will, and it could be anyone who is the traitor. What can we do? Who can we trust?"

"Indeed" Falberd crossed his thick fingers. "Why, the traitor could be you, Lady Nasuada, or any of us here that thinks that our cause is lost. Where do we start the search? I am quite certain that none of us sitting here wishes for our minds to be rifled through. And vows in the elvish language are out of the question, for we do not wish to make unbreakable promises that can be used against us."

Orrin shook his head wearily and stood up from his seat.

"We are all frightened." The king said in a heavy voice. "There is no doubting that fact. But while he hides in the shadows there is nothing we can do in the light. The only thing we can do now is to be cautious, extremely so. And wait, wait until he makes a mistake that will lead to his downfall."

"There is no time for that." Hissed Eragon. "If he is as clever as you say he is, then it could be until he kills half of us all before we can even find a clue."

Jormundur laughed.

"Plenty better than him killing all of us, don't you think? He is obviously skilled enough to foil any attempts to catch him or evade his attacks." he said dryly. "Whatever the case may be, we will still have to move on towards Belatona. We have come this far already; if the men see us back away from challenges so easily, they will lose faith. And if the men lose faith, we will lose the war."

"Indeed." agreed Nasuada. "We cannot stop now. Start readying the men for battle, Jormundur. As planned, we will begin the siege at dawn."

Jormudur bowed. "Yes, my lady. At once."

"May the gods watch over us." muttered Umerth.

King Orrin let out a strangled chuckle. "Bloody hells, it is like the time Morzan's Black Hand was in her prime. Murdering people so swiftly, so easily… like an art in itself." He sighed to himself as he walked out the tent. "It is a real pity that we do not have anyone to save us from it this time."

Eragon raised himself from his chair and walked, with shaking steps, out of the tent as well. The sky was clear and fair, a contrast from what Eragon felt in his heart.

It had been a horrible thing, finding Blodhgarm. When they had rushed into the clearing led by a frantic scout, they saw the elf standing there as he had in life, with a relaxed posture and that irritating smirk. His head was raised, as if searching for something in the sky. Eragon almost breathed in relief then, but as he examined closer, the more his horror grew.

There were black arrows. Each of them sank till only the very tips of the feathers could be seen, and it seemed that there were hundreds of them embedded in the elf's once graceful body. But that was not the worst of it. It was not the thing that left Eragon stumbling back in disbelief, trying to hold back the bile that rose in his throat.

The killer was ruthless. Every time an arrow reached its mark, enchanted thorns each as long as Eragon's fingers would erupt from the length of the projectile, sealing the arrow inside and destroying the body from within. Ignoring the others, the rider had set himself down to the task of removing every one and last of them from Blodhgarm's corpse, his hands covered in blood.

He had never been close to Blodhgarm. They were companions, and friends of some sort; but for some reason, holding the elf's cold body in his hands lit a icy flame in him, filling him with the same grief and anger he had felt when Oromis died.

"_I would die first before anyone does. That I promise."_

What a lie. What a shameless lie.

He continued to walk forward, Saphira paddinging along beside him between the tents. Gleadr's Eldunari felt impossibly heavy in his pack, the weight of guilt weighing down upon him like a stone.

_Arya was right. You need to calm down and think, not wallow in your self-pity. _Saphira said to him, turning her head around to look at her rider. _What has happened to you? A few months ago you would have worshipped her every word, and listened to her every order. Now you disagree with her on the smallest of things, and even while she teaches you at night it is as if the very air is made of ice._

Eragon smiled grimly to himself. _I do not know. But every time I near her I feel… cold. I detest the way she looks at the world, so uncaring and heartless. Why must everything be based on logic? Why must everyone so be ruthless?_

_You thought her of this same way before, though in a much better light. _Replied Saphira. _But that only added to your attractions, seeing her full of mystery and cold as the winter snow, sometimes full of life as flowers in spring. Why do you feel this way now?_

Eragon fingered the hilt of Brisingr as he thought of the question.

_We are truly in war._ He said finally. _We see the worst in every being, and the worst of us is bared for anyone to see. And no matter what the others say, I am not a warrior at heart. I am a mere farm boy, with his fates twisted against him._

The corners of Saphira's mouth turned upwards into a small smirk. _I wonder what the men would think of what you have just said. If farm boys could slay Shades and become Shur'tugal, I daren't think of how many unnamed farming villages would suffer._

Eragon laughed, the shadow on his heart lessening, little by little. He looked to the north, and gazed at the tall walls of Belatona. The last rays of the sun cast their glow on the grey stones.

_Tomorrow is ours. The city will fall beneath our might, and step by step, we will grow ever nearer to the Black King and cast him off his dark throne._

Reaching up, Eragon stroked Saphira's scales.

_And he will curse the day he ever heard our names._

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Okay then… the next chapter will be the start of the long and exciting siege, in which strange things will appear by the dozen and when the main plot of the story truly begins to start.

On an added note… I turned sixteen this Wednesday. Don't know whether I should be happy or sad about it though. Sixteen years and I'm still pretty much a worthless guy.

Or as my friend would say, "Each birthday that comes by signals that you just lost another year to live…"

Anyway, I'm really happy with Fanfiction net. Why? Because the review button just became so goddarned _big_. And when something becomes big, you _know_ you wanna press it.


	10. Day Break

Chapter 10: Day Break

The battlefield reeked of smoke and death. Screaming men clutched their wounds as they writhed on the blood soaked ground, and black arrows filled the air. Swords and shields were scattered in every direction, and the scorching noon sun glinted off the dull metal.

Time and time again, the brave men of the Varden rushed towards the city, ramming the gates and seeking to scale the walls; and time and time again, they broke upon it like waves on stone. Countless men were wounded, many of them dead. Jormundur himself had taken an arrow to the stomach, and had been taken away. Belatona still stood strong and unassailable.

Eragon watched the scene below with gritted teeth. _We have been fighting for more than half a day, Saphira. How many must die before we take the city?_

_Battle is not without its costs. _The dragon replied, breathing flames onto a knot of soldiers as they circled the city walls. The men shrieked in pain as they were burned to their deaths. _I do not like it anymore than you, but it is the truth._

_Then the cost is too high in this case. _Eragon closed his eyes and concentrated, spreading his mind again to find the enemy magicians that were scattered across the city. Tightening his mind around one that he had discovered, he pierced through her defenses like a sword and ended her life. _This cannot go on, or the Varden will suffer too many losses. It must end, and soon._

A mind scratched the edges of his conscience warily, and spoke. _Shadeslayer, a group of Jormudur's men need aid in the southwest part of the wall. They are being overcome!_

_Understood. _Trianna's mind retreated from his mind, and he grimaced. _Saphira, you heard her request. We will go at onc—_

_No. _Arya's mind broke into his. _I will deal with it. Continue your assault on the main gates._

A cluster of bolts flew towards Eragon, fired from strong crossbows. Stopping them with a word, the rider sent them back with doubled force. The archers fell, pierced by their own weapons.

_But—_

_Of all of us, you are most suited to the task._ Arya said emotionlessly._ Do it as swiftly as you can, or Nasuada will have to sound the retreat. More of my kin are heading your way to aid you._

_The gates are too heavily guarded!_ Eragon surveyed the city from the back of Saphira, noting its numerous bowmen and warriors._ It is not something that I can do with myself alone and several magicians. The more we try, the more men will lose their lives!_

_We have no choice. Do what you can, but be cautious. We cannot afford to lose you._

The rider's lips twisted into a small sneer. _Right._

The city of Belatona was an immensely well fortified city, its nigh impregnable stone walls high and thick. As the base of the Empire's military operations in the south, it had legions of battle-hardened soldiers to defend it from enemies. Since Galbatorix had seized it, Belatona's gates had never fallen.

_That will change today! _Roared Saphira.

Eragon raised his hand up into the air, shouting an incantation. Blinding light flooded from his palm, and the soldiers on the fortifications were forced to look elsewhere, lest their eyes be scorched by the sheer intensity. Using the opening, rider and dragon rushed at the gates, hoping to destroy the chains that kept it in place.

Spells of various kinds assailed his wards, and he grimaced at the sudden lack of energy. The sorcerers hid themselves well among the numerous soldiers, and it was near impossible to discover them. Less affected by the spell then normal men, they began the attacks almost immediately.

_Some of these are very skilled, _snarled the rider as they were forced away. _It will be extremely difficult to defeat them, even if we are able to open the gates._

_Agreed. _Saphira increased her speed as she dodged a hail of arrows that whistled through the air. _Yet, if we do not break open the gates, nothing can be done._

Eragon nodded grimly. _Yes. However… I think that this battle will be fought for much longer than Nasuada had guessed._

An almost unnoticeable movement at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Turning his head around, he saw that on the tallest tower of the city walls a man in a dark cloak had straightened up where he sat. In his hands was a sleek ebony longbow.

_A magician, from the looks of it. _Growled Saphira.

_Aye. _Eragon tightened his grip on Brisingr. _Saphira, aid me in my efforts. If we do not defeat him in a few seconds, he may—_

An enchanted arrow hissed towards them with astonishing power and speed, loosed by the spell caster. Shocked, and unsure if he was able to block it with magic, the rider raised Brisingr and deflected it with difficulty. His wrists shook from the pure force.

_That is no ordinary sorcerer! _Eragon fought to evade the other arrows that came soon after, and Saphira spiraled through the air to escape the archer's aim. _I haven't seen that kind of power since… since…_

Something seemed to shift in the air, causing the rider to blink in surprise. There was a thing that was out of place, an odd feeling that crept into his skin… like the plants and all beasts had fallen silent--

_Eragon! _Screamed Trianna. _He's here! I see his dra—_

Excruciating pain hit Eragon in the right as he was struck by an immense force, with a strength hundred times stronger than Roran's hammer blows, stronger than anything he had ever experienced. Vision dimming, Brisingr flew out of his nerveless hand and he toppled off Saphira's back.

He had barely enough time to shout out his agony and surprise before he hit the ground.

Blood spurted out his mouth. Countless bones shattered, and pierced out of skin. His organs ruptured. But despite the pain and his wavering consciousness, he struggled to stand, his heart filled with desperation.

"_Murtagh…!"_ He whispered through clenched teeth. _That cursed bowman was the bastard himself!_

He had never sensed them beforehand, not even a trace. Descending from above the clouds, Thorn had knocked him off Saphira with a heavy blow.

_Why is he here? I thought he was in the north!_

Feral roars filled Eragon's ears as the two dragons battled above. With a trembling hand, he moved his fingers over his chest and a spell started to heal his injuries. The power he had stored in his belt aided him in his efforts.

_Eragon! _Saphira shouted in his mind, full of concern. _Are you all right?_

The shards of white shrank back into his skin, one by one, and his flesh began to knit like torn cloth being woven together. The injuries were no longer fatal. He smiled, but it was strained.

_I will live. _He responded, blood dripping out from between his lips. _Tell Nasuada… to signal the retreat. Without the elves, there is no chance…_

Footsteps sounded beside him.

"You've grown wise, Brother. What you have just said is true."

Eragon coughed and turned around, hand reaching to his empty scabbard. Breathing ragged gasps, he looked up and locked his gaze with Murtagh.

The wind blew softly as the red rider advanced towards Eragon, wild bloodlust in his eyes. The black cloak fluttered around him, tattered and worn by years of use. Slowly, tauntingly, Murtagh drew out his crimson sword.

"Now you finally recognize the difference, the vast gap that separates you and me. I have power; you do not." Zar'roc shone with bloody malevolence, and a murderous smirk appeared on Murtagh's face. "The spell casters are not here to save you now, Eragon. No one will. Not even your new blade, which has abandoned you."

"I am no brother… of yours!" grunted Eragon as he pulled out his hunting knife. "And what power you have is gained is sought through the strength of others. Not something that is truly yours, traitor."

His vision blurred, and then cleared again. The yells and shouts of the battle faded into the background as he concentrated on the enemy before him. A foe that was far beyond his own abilities, even without his severe wounds.

"Oh?" Murtagh chuckled, his laugh high and chilling. "You are well informed. Indeed, the source of my power comes from five Eldunari. The very weakest of all of Galbatorix's collection. And yet, it has made me the strongest of all beings, with only my king above! I can burn, I can kill, I can destroy at will! People are ants before my power, and armies are nothing before my might!" Zar'roc flashed through the air, and Eragon barely managed to block it with the side of his knife.

"You are weak, Eragon, so very weak. Just one simple fall has rendered you unable to stand properly." Zar'roc came from the side, and Eragon avoided it by a hair's breadth. "I can't help but pity you." Murtagh whispered silkily in his ear. "It must be mighty hard for the Varden, to have such a useless piece of trash as their rider."

A crackling orb of emerald magic crashed against the side of Murtagh's face. Though it failed to penetrate the rider's wards, the blast of power sent him stumbling a few steps to the side. Before he could whirl around, a slim elven sword followed and went directly towards his throat.

"Hellfire!" Batting the blade away with a growl, Murtagh's eyes narrowed as he righted his sword and eyed his new opponent.

"You…" He spat.

Arya did not respond, and slashed at the rider's side. Murtagh parried the blow, and the vicious duel started in a torrent of flashing blades.

His feet collapsing beneath him, Eragon panted as his spell continued to heal his broken bones. One by one, they melted together and reset themselves into their proper places. Breathing hard, he felt around for Brisingr.

The blade was still nowhere to be seen.

Silver danced around crimson as the two continued to fight. Little by little, Arya led Murtagh away from where Eragon lay. Arya was quicker than the eye could follow, her movements graceful but fierce; but Murtagh blocked the blows easily, his strength unparalleled. They were both masters of the art, and were absolutely merciless in their attacks.

The red rider sneered and broke apart from the duel, his sword falling slightly to the side at a strange angle. Eragon paled; he had seen this move many times in his numerous duels with Murtagh long ago, and he knew what would happen.

"Arya!" he shouted. His wounds were but half healed and the bones in his legs were not yet fully mended, but he sprang forward with all his might, dagger in hand.

With a sharp blow, Murtagh drove the sword out of Arya's grasp, sending it flying through the air. Laughing in evil pleasure at his success, he brought Zar'roc downwards, eyes filled with malice.

There was clang and a flash of sparks, and Murtagh blinked in surprise. Eragon stood before him, trembling from the pain that wracked his body, his hunting knife held upwards to block the slash.

"Enough, Murtagh." His voice was quiet but determined. Sliding the dagger into a reverse grip, he took a stance.

Murtagh grinned broadly, and for a moment, it seemed to Eragon that the old Murtagh he had known and traveled with had returned again before his eyes. The same determination, the slight mischievousness, and--

A hand clamped itself around his throat, and he choked. Murtagh looked at him coldly, all traces of warmth gone.

"You haven't changed, Eragon. You always made it your task to fight against the inevitable, no matter how hard or harsh it was. Always placing others before you, always acting the fool." The red rider slammed him onto the ground, and grabbed his left hand. "I will deal with you later. The elf is scrambling to reach her sword, and will be a nuisance if left untended."

Unsheathing a knife from his belt, Murtagh charged it with magic and nailed Eragon's hand to the ground, sinking the blade to the hilt. Eragon arched his back in agony.

"Die clutching your idiocy." Murtagh hissed.

Without another word, the red rider raced towards Arya, who had only just reached her sword. Eragon knew that Murtagh would kill her easily. With one strong blow, he would end her life, leaving her with no time to set up her defenses. One blow.

The spell had his hand nailed firmly on the crimson stained ground. Blood seeped out of the gash, and the more he struggled more would pour out. There was no way he would be able to save her. She would die, like so many other people had.

"_I would die first before anyone else does. That, I promise."_

His lips curled into a thin smile.

Then, like a demon possessed, he grasped his knife tightly and sawed off his hand with barely a twitch of his features. Blood splattered his face and armor, but he ignored it. The dagger fell and slid into the soft earth.

_I must be quick. _Rising to his feet, he noticed that all of the sounds and sights seemed to have died away completely, leaving only Arya and his brother. The others seemed to him only a blur.

His legs started to move on their own, soon turning into a sprint at a speed he never knew he had.

_I must be swift. _Murtagh was laughing with his sword drawn back, Arya had one hand raised, ready to block the thrust with magic if needed. Her other hand was only beginning to touch the hilt of her blade.

_I must be strong. _Covering the few paces between them, he grabbed Arya roughly and shoved her out of the way.

Zar'roc entered him, but he never felt the pain. But he ignored the lack of agony, instead focusing on Murtagh's shocked features before him. He had no weapon; therefore, he drew back his fist and with every bit of strength left in him, struck his brother in the face.

The wine-colored blade left his body as quickly as it had come, now dyed in his blood. Murtagh was tossed through the air like a rag doll, Zar'roc besides him.

A voice sounded in his ear, coming from his confused memories in what seemed ages past:

"_Or what, you'll punch me? You couldn't hit a brick wall!"_

A small smile passed over his features before he fell, his legs unable to support his broken body any longer.

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He is not going to lose that hand! I promise that. I despise using the same stuff over and over again.

This chapter was very hard to write. I debated with myself over so many places, and in the end I still don't know if I did a good job of it. To me, it seems like a muck of incomprehensible sentences.

So, if you enjoyed it, or have something to say… please click that button that has been enlarged, to my immense joy.


	11. Fracturing Minds

Chapter 11: Fracturing Minds

_Pain… immeasurable pain… longing… shackled wrists… thirst…_

_Leering men… agony… whips that came in contact with his flesh, each like a lick of flame…. Knives, so many knives…_

_And a dark person who would enter the chamber, always saying things. Watching over the proceedings without remorse, yet without the slightest sign of enjoyment. Saying how disappointed he was, saying how he could be so much better._

_But he only wanted the pain to end._

Eragon slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the strong light filtering through the fabric of the tent. He groaned softly and lowered his eyelids again, returning to that calming, cool darkness.

He had dreamed about something, something he was sure that had scared him beyond his imagination. Something about pain. A pain that he had not felt ever in his life, nor one that he was likely to feel in his future. Yet no matter his efforts, he could not succeed in recalling the blurred images. Only a haunting voice remained, drifting about his ears but never letting him hear for sure what it said.

Groaning, he coughed lightly and settled into a more comfortable position in his bed. The bed was clearly not his; the sheets were made of the finest silk, pillows filled with swan feathers. Had something happened? Why was he here? Why was his mouth filled with the taste of blood? And why was there a piece of cloth covering his right eye?

Shaking his head in order to clear it, he looked towards his left hand and an odd feeling struck him. He was sure that he had severed it—

Eyes widening, he sat bolt upright from his bed. "Murtagh!" he gasped.

A figure in the corner of the tent jumped, startled by his sudden movement. Turning around from the bandages she was washing, Trianna looked towards him with a shocked look.

The two of them stared at each other, both speechless, for a few moments before the sorceress finally broke the silence.

"You're… awake?" she spluttered. "From the wounds you received, I would not have been surprised if you remained sleeping until next month!"

"Murtagh." He breathed. "Where is Murtagh? What happened after I fell? How is Arya? Saphira?"

Trianna rushed over to his side. "Argetlam—"

"Answer my questions, sorceress." He said through gritted teeth. "They are of utmost importance."

The spellcaster curtsied, and stepped back. "As you wish, Argetlam." Smoothing out the folds in her dress, she started her report, her words clear and precise.

"The red rider retreated after you fell, as did his dragon, Thorn. They left in the direction of Uru'baen, where the Council and Nasuada assume they have returned to. Belatona's walls have yet been breached, and the commanders have sounded a temporary retreat to the south. Saphira, having been injured in the battle, is now being tended to by the elven magicians in the eastern parts of the camp. She is expected to make a swift recovery, as no wounds were fatal. I do not know the whereabouts of the elven ambassador, but from what I have heard is that she is alive and well."

Sighing in relief, Eragon sank down in his bed, his main worries leaving him like windblown mist. They were alive. Though not unharmed, they were alive.

Trianna placed the cloths back into the basin. "Argetlam, you need rest. Your battle with the red rider has cost you greatly, and it is a miracle in itself that you were able to wake so early."

Eragon touched the numerous strips of white cloth that were wrapped all over his body, wincing as he did so. Though covered with bandages, he could tell that the wound on his stomach where Murtagh had stabbed him was almost entirely mended, though there was a long way until it would be completely healed. Where the other minor wounds had been were now only patches of raw skin.

Frowning, he touched the bandage that was bound around his head. "I do not remember having a injury in this area. Why is this here?"

"Blood was seeping out from the edges of your right eye. It has stopped, but the healers bound it there as a precaution." Trianna seemed to be deep in thought. "But it is of no concern. There were plenty more wounds harsher than that, and the magicians managed to repair them to some degree. They spent more than a day on the hand itself."

Eragon nodded as he looked over his body. "How long have I been laying here?" he stretched his cloth-wrapped arms, testing them. His left hand was still unresponsive, and would only twitch weakly when he tried to move his fingers. Along with it came a strange dullness mixed with a burning pain.

"Two days, Argetlam." She stood up from where she was sitting, and walked over to his bed. "That witch Angela had said something about how unnaturally fast your recovery was when she examined the wounds, but I did not think that—"

Eragon's eyes widened. "Two days? How… in such a short time…?"

Trianna shook her head. "I do not know." Walking to a nearby table, she picked up a pitcher of water and poured the water into a mug. She handed it to Eragon.

"Here, drink. I do not even want to think about how much blood you lost with that act of yours. Few people get themselves pierced with a rider's blade and live to tell the tale."

Eragon took the mug, trying to conceal his wariness he had for the spellcaster. Ever since the time in Tronjheim, he always had qualms about trusting her; even when she proved to be an adept fighter in battles with the Empire. And among the people in the Varden he suspected was Blodhgarm's killer, Trianna was one of them.

Trianna laughed, seeing his hesitation.

"It is not poisoned. Trust me." She said in the ancient language. "Besides, what good would it do if I killed you? The Varden would be crushed like a dry twig under the King's might, and all my hard work would be for naught."

Eragon raised an eyebrow. "You could present my head to Galbatorix."

The sorceress chortled. "And be offered a place in his court? Three days after he seemingly 'rewarded' me, I would find myself in the deepest gutter in Uru'baen, flesh rotting beyond recognition and very much dead. His majesty has had a distrust of traitors ever since he created the Wyrdfell. If that were not the case, I would have found a way to kill you as soon as I could."

Amazed at the spellcaster's directness, Eragon couldn't help but laugh. "You would?"

Trianna smirked. "I work only for myself. That is mainly why I chose to be in the Varden; it is more of a gamble, and therefore both the risks and the rewards are much higher. If the Varden won this war, we of the Du Vrangr Gata would be awarded with gold and glory. If I worked in the Black Hand, Galbatorix would probably find an excuse to kill us all, as he has no use for spellcasters if there is no battle to be fought."

"Should I be frightened by what you have just said, or glad?" The rider sipped the water, deciding to trust her.

The sorceress shrugged. "Take it in any way you will. This trait of mine has been the reason behind almost everything I had ever done. From joining the Varden, lying and manipulating along the way… to that attempt to seduce you in the dragonhold. I tell you this now mainly because there is no reason not to, and because there is no harm in it."

"So you admit to doing that the first day we met?" Eragon grinned despite the pain and laid down his head on the pillow. "And why do you think there is no harm? You could have continued your effort in trying to charm me."

A sly smile appeared on Trianna's face. "Oh? And you would fall for me when you already have someone you would die for, one that could make you cast your life away in an instant? I think not, Argetlam." Leaning over, she whispered into his ear. "You are so young, and so pure. I would love to play with your heart, but it seems that it is already taken."

A shade of red appeared on Eragon's face and he growled, pushing the sorceress away from him as he lifted himself out of his bed. "Do not jest of such things, sorceress."

Trianna noticed what Eragon was attempting. "Argetlam, though your wounds have healed on the exterior, in truth your body is still very weak. You need rest—"

"My body is something that I have the most knowledge of. I know my limits." With a grunt, he stood up on his unsteady legs and stumbled out of the tent, paying no heed to the protesting sorceress.

"Argetlam—"

Eragon turned around and sighed. "Trianna, I can survive this little stroll. Trust me on th--"

"Eragon! You're awake!" cried a voice. Turning around, Eragon saw his cousin running towards him, arm in a sling.

"Once again, you've displayed your remarkable talent at surviving from fatal blows." Roran slapped his shoulder gently with his good arm, careful not to touch any healing injuries. "Do you know how worried we were when we saw you there, eye closed, hand-less and blood pooling on the ground? I had to convince Katrina for half a day until she would believe that you wouldn't die. And even _I_ had my doubts."

The rider smiled wanly. "A Shur'tugal would not die that easily. Though I must admit, even I am surprised that I am still standing."

"We all are." Roran let out a breath and stared out to the city walls of Belatona. "And because of this, don't you ever do such a thing again."

"Roran—"

His cousin continued to look towards the city. "Dying is simple, Eragon. One swift sword stroke is enough to send even to most hardened man into the afterlife, where feelings are numbed and nothingness awaits. But for friends and family left behind? Endless anguish and misery. Remember that before leaping before a sword."

Eragon ran a hand through his hair. "Roran...I—"

A cool voice interrupted him. The cold voice that drew him near, had attracted him ever since he had heard it. Like soft notes from a silver bell.

"Stronghammer is correct in many aspects, but not all. Eragon, please come with me." Slim fingers wrapped around his wrist and before he knew it, he was being pulled slowly along the twisting paths between the numerous tents. The scent of pine needles was strong, and he knew who it was without looking.

"Ary—"

"Not now, Shur'tugal." She answered, moving within the flow of soldiers with fluid grace. Eragon frowned and held his tongue; Arya had seldom called him by his position. And her voice seemed to be filled with emotions that Eragon could not name.

At last, they arrived at a small tent that was on the very edge of the Varden camps. Leading him inside, Arya lit a candle and turned around to face him.

"You shouldn't have done so." Her words were straightforward and direct.

Eragon could feel her anger and her frustration. He had been expecting it, ever since the elf had grabbed his hand. As his ebrithil, she had told him similar things time and time again, but he never really obeyed her words.

The rider looked back into her emerald eyes. "Why shouldn't I have?"

"It was exceedingly foolish. What would have happened if you had lost your life under Morzan's crimson blade? What would have happened to the Varden, to the Dwarves, to Surda? What we had done, what we had strived for would have vanished in an instant. People would die by the thousands. That is why you shouldn't have."

"And let you be killed instead? If I hadn't acted—"

"Life is meaningless to those who cast their body and life entirely into war. And as I know that I am not a leader as strong or decisive as my mother, my death would aid the war if it ever came to be; all of Du Weldenvarden would be out for Galbatorix's head, and the Queen of the Elves would thirst for revenge. However, if you had died, the spark of fire that has been our hope would have extinguished completely. There would be no chance for—"

"Stop it." Eragon muttered. Arya raised a slanted eyebrow.

"You speak of your life as if it wasn't yours, Arya. And you refer to it as if it was something like coins or gold, a blade or an arrow. Must everything be seen in this way?"

"In war, this is the only way things must be seen. With unclouded judgment and a clear mind. In battle, every one of us is a weapon. It would do best if all warriors knew their place."

"Things do not have to be this complex, Arya!" Eragon started to pace around in the tent. "What reason is needed to save a woman?"

"I am not—"

"You are stronger than me in any way, Arya, and I know that. But there are times when you cannot fight alone. I did not do it because I thought you needed my help, but because it was what's _right_." Eragon turned away and started to walk out of the tent. "That is what I think. And since you would not agree no matter what I do, I'd rather end this discussion now."

"…Eragon." For the first time, the rider sensed uncertainty in the elf's voice.

He halted his steps. "Yes?"

"I may disagree with you on what you had chosen to do, but it does not mean that I am not grateful." Arya's voice seemed much more weak and quiet in comparison to before. "For what you did… I give you my thanks. I owe you a debt once more."

There was a silence.

"It was nothing." He answered, just as quietly. He stepped out of the tent and went to find Saphira.

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So effing tired… and my eyes are so sore…

Hope you enjoyed this. I didn't really know how to fit the things around, so it may be a little weird in some parts.

Please review, and give me some much needed advice.

P.S. Oh, and to those who asked: Unless a crazy idea of some sort strikes me, this fic is most probably going to be Eragon x Arya.


	12. Nameless Warrior

Chapter 12: Nameless Warrior

The cold night wind blew across the city, sending the many standards and flags flapping in the darkness. The clouds were thick and heavy, covering the stars and moon above, and the only sources of illumination came from the torches held by numerous guards. The flames flickered and danced in the gusts.

And of course, the firelight from the Varden, which army surrounded their city from all sides. Even from here Gerreld could see the steel and metal that flashed occasionally, reflecting the images of the flames.

His grip on his spear tightened.

Rebellious dogs… why did they have to do this? Why stand against the Empire? Why force him away from his wife, his children, the only warmth he ever had?

A hand patted him on his back and he turned around.

"So, any movement?" The other soldier asked casually as he joined him on the wall. In his hands was a wineskin.

"No. Nothing has really happened tonight. Which I am thankful for." Gerreld replied, taking the offered wineskin. "No more Varden scum trying to sneak up the wall, or try burying those exploding devices. It gets tiring, Vor, to try and keep up with those bastards."

The man chuckled. "Aye, aye. Oh, and have you heard? The lord had gathered the captains today and told them that he was certain that we would survive this particular tempest. Seems that our recent success had given him confidence."

Gerreld frowned. "What recent success? You mean our victory over the blue rider?"

Vor shook his head. "Victory? I'd say we were the ones who lost. You saw how the red rider was when he left."

Gerreld nodded slowly. The writhing figure clutched between the claws of Thorn as the dragon flew, anguish marring his handsome features and the pitiful moans that came from the depths of his throat…

"But I have to say that their duel shocked me." Vor sighed as he looked upwards into the inky blackness. "The blue rider, falling from such an absurd height and still managing to fight… The two dragons… it felt like I had intruded upon a realm of gods that I was not supposed to enter."

Gerreld nodded in agreement as he sipped the wine and let it flow down his parched throat. It was vile, but at least it washed away the dryness.

"But enough of that. You do know what I mean by our success, do you?" Vor walked towards the edge of the wall and looked towards the Varden. "The news has been going around in town for nearly an entire day."

Gerreld snorted. "And I stood here for nearly an entire day. Alone, I must add."

His companion turned around, surprised. "So you haven't heard anything?"

"What was I supposed to hear?" replied Gerreld in an irritated tone. He downed the last of the rancid liquid and tried not to choke.

Vor sighed in exasperation and scratched his head. With his helmet off, the brown hair on his head seemed to go in every direction. "You really don't know anything? Anything at all?"

"I was never one for gossip." Muttered Gerreld rather crossly. "To the point, if you please."

Vor sighed one last time and looked at him in the eye.

"We captured Roran Stronghammer. And it was Captain Juri who did it."

Gerreld coughed and spluttered, the wine spurting from his mouth. Vor had wisely stepped away beforehand, and tried to hide a grin.

"That was my exact reaction as well when I heard of it. And yet, it is true. I have heard it from numerous trustworthy sources. He and seventy-four of his men were defeated and captured as they attempted to scout around the city."

"_The_ Roran Stronghammer? The one rumored to have the blood of a rider, strength of a demon and will of a god?" Gerreld shook his head. "That is simply not possible! Wasn't there that rumor about him single-handedly slaying nearly two hundred men—"

"And to think that _the_ Captain Juri managed to capture him. The blundering noble idiot who got his position through more bribes than I can count." Vor chortled. "But he did it. The good Captain must have more tricks up his sleeve than we thought."

"I still don't believe it." Growled Gerreld, crossing his arms. "Either it is false, or too much of the fame surrounding Stronghammer is fake. Either one, or maybe both."

Vor shrugged. "Well, the most important thing is that we've got one of their best men in the dungeons. Rumors have it that the lord has already made a plan based on the information we extracted from them. Hopefully this means that we can end this soon."

"Based on what luck we've had these few years, I doubt it." Said Gerreld dryly. "But, as you've said, it's something to hope for."

"Then hope for it. Maybe you'll even be able to see her and your children before the end of the year."

His breath caught in his throat. Their delighted faces appeared before him, full of laughter and merriment. And the soft lips of Mariel… a taste he had almost forgotten.

Vor clasped him on the back and grinned before returning down the stairway, leaving Gerreld to his own thoughts.

His lips softened into a smile.

"Watch out!" Someone screamed.

Out of pure reflex, Gerreld ducked immediately and felt an arrow whistle above him. Missing its intended target, the bolt sank into the stone beside him, quivering.

"What in the blazes—" he started to yell, but stopped. He had just realized something.

The arrow had come from inside the city. Not outside it. And its accuracy was too great to be a simple slip from an archer's fingers.

A band of soldiers, more than fifty but less than a hundred, moved through the streets cutting down any guard that stood in their way. Bowmen shot at any man in sight, their bowstrings singing in a continuous whine. The bloody blades flashed and shone in the torchlight, and any peace that Gerreld had originally felt was shattered into pieces.

Drawing his own sword and putting down the spear he originally held, he started to run down from his position on the wall. He needed to help. Caught by surprise, the patrolling soldiers below were being slaughtered like lambs and it was only a matter of time until the men reached the gates.

His eyes widened. The gates. They intended to let the Varden in!

Sprinting now, he jumped down the rest of the stairs and raced towards the band of men. At their lead was a man in a simple tunic, wearing neither armor nor helmet. In his hands was a carpenter's hammer.

Gerreld narrowed his eyes.

_Roran_ _Stronghammer._

More and more guards were alerted of the trouble, and soldiers gathered by the dozens to stop them. Amidst the screams and yells, hope grew in Gerreld heart once more; for now, they outnumber them five to one—

But they did not halt in their steps. Their pace did not break. Continuing to move on, anyone in their way had only one fate. Death.

Arrows whizzed through the air, shot by the various archers stationed on rooftops or on the wall. But it was futile. The projectiles fell the moment they touched their skin, protected by an invisible force.

"There is magician among their ranks!" Someone shouted.

Gritting his teeth, Gerreld continued to draw near the band of men. If he could take the head of their leader, then this would be over. If they succeeded in opening the gates, then Beletona would fall. The soldiers stationed inside the city were nothing compared to the Varden. The difference in numbers would be enough alone.

When did the outcome of this battle be decided on such a small skirmish?

Sorcerers rained spells onto the group, and yet every time proved useless. They continued on without difficulty, without any sign of hesitation. It seemed as if they were closed off from the world, and only when a guard drew near would they suddenly act and slash down with a crimson sword.

They had reached the gates. Their men spread out, clearly going to protect this suicidal plan with their lives. Stronghammer and a few spellcasters beside him climbed up to the guard tower, where the gears to the gates were kept.

_Fools. That little option had been destroyed for a long time._

Ever since the siege began, they had sealed off the main gates, hearing of the way Feinster fell. The opening gears were jammed and blocked, and the gates were reinforced repeatedly by heavy chains.

Covered by layers upon layers of thick enchantments, the iron chains were nearly indestructible through normal or magical means. It would buy them time, but even if Stronghammer broke it at the last moment it would mean the Varden's victory.

Shouts of alarm emanated from on top of the wall, where a few soldiers still stood. Even from a distance, Gerreld could make out what they were saying.

The Varden were coming.

The Varden were coming.

Roran emerged from the guard tower, scowling fiercely. With a few shouted orders, the magicians bowed and started to reach their sorcery into the thick chains, seeking to destroy them.

_There isn't enough time! _Gerrald thought desperately.

Alarms sounded, horns blared, and more and more soldiers poured out into the streets. Cold steel and sharpened metal were unsheathed and held in readied hands, and the quietness was replaced with a chaotic frenzy.

The spellcasters next to Stronghammer were chanting in unison, while the chains glowed dimly in the darkness. Roran seemed to be impatient, and was looking towards the outside of the city. His hammer was dripping scarlet onto the ground.

"Gerreld!" Vor shouted to him. He turned around, and saw his friend carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows.

"The magicians enchanted them." He said breathelessly, tossing the items towards Gerreld. "If we're lucky, they might pierce through the wards that those people've erected around themselves. That's what our captain said."

"Me?"

"Of course you." Said Vor impatiently. "You were always a better shot than me. Now make haste! We do not have much time!"

Nodding, Gerreld sheathed his sword, fitted an arrow to the bowstring and tested the wind. Focusing every bit of concentration he had, he pulled back and aimed the metal point towards Stronghammer.

Satisfied, he breathed in deeply, and fired.

None of them should have noticed it. But as Roran whirled around, one of the spellcasters looked up, and simply plucked the arrow out of the air.

His dark hair shifted, and Gerreld's sharp eyes could see pointed ears concealed underneath.

_Hellfire! Elves!_

Vor seemed to have seen it to, for his face turned an ashen pale. "Elves… why didn't the men who examined them find out about it! This is impossible!"

The elf glanced silently their way, but strangely, chose to ignore them and continued on unraveling the spellwork that surrounded the chains. The iron grew brighter each passing moment, now taking a silver sheen.

Gerreld growled and began to run forwards. Vor hesitated, then followed swiftly after.

"With how things are progressing, we will never make it. Those dogs have already removed half the enchantments on the chain, on my reckoning." Vor shouted as they ran. "And once they finish, we'd quicker dig our own graves."

Gerreld said nothing in response, only tearing off his helmet to lessen the weight. His pace quickened.

At the base of the gate, a fierce battle was being fought. Though almost impossibly skilled, Roran's men could not hold off long in face of such a tremendous number. But the time that they gained would be more than enough for the gates to be opened.

Nodding his head to a silent order, one of the spellcasters stood up smoothly where he had kneeled. Turning away from his companions, he drew a long, rapier like blade and jumped straight down from the wall.

_He's an elf as well. _Thought Gerreld.

Landing in a graceful crouch, the elf's sudden appearance surprised the guards. Using their momentary weakness, the elf did not waste a second.

Blood and entrails splattered onto the ground as six guards fell in a single strike. No… six slashes, each faster than the human eye could follow. Expressionless, the elf leapt away, leaving a trail of carnage wherever he dashed.

"Monsters, the lot of 'em." Muttered Vor.

Gerreld could not agree more with his words.

But it seemed that they were winning. The guards had slain more than half of Stronghammer's men, and were edging ever closer to where the elves were casting their spells. Roran had a furious scowl on his face, and the hand clutching his hammer was shaking. It was obvious that he knew that his men had little time as well.

Then, it all changed. In one single moment.

A flash of pure blue struck down from the heavens like a thunderbolt, ramming itself deep into the stone below. Shards of heated metal and stone were thrown around like leaves in a hurricane, and the elves were forced to back away from the powerful blast.

The magical strength… even for one completely uneducated in the magical arts, it was there to feel… and to fear.

A deathly silence spread across the soldiers. Still hissing with power, a brilliant sapphire blade had sunk to the hilt in the stone before the gates, shearing apart all the chains that stood in its way. It meant only one thing.

There was a roar of triumph, and a majestic beast parted the clouds, its powerful wingbeats scattering the haze around it. In that moment, the skies seem to clear, any shred of gloom being dispelled by the blasts of wind. The moon shone brilliantly once more, a full disk bright in the sky.

Gracefully, the almost puny looking figure on her back jumped off without a word, landing beside his blade. Grasping the hilt, he pulled out the sword with little effort and pointed its tip towards the men of Belatona.

Gerreld's blood ran cold. The rider was here. After just a few days, the Shur'tugal had nearly completely recovered from fatal wounds and was standing before them. And now Murtagh wasn't at their side to combat his abilities.

The dragon landed on top of the city walls, thin crack marks appearing where it had sank its claws. It growled threateningly, and tongues of fire danced between its teeth.

"Lay down your arms and surrender!" The rider shouted out. Though it was the tender voice of a young man, the dignity and authority inside was unmistakable.

"As if we would surrender to a half breed elf like you!" a soldier screamed, and rushed out with his sword drawn, paying no heed to the cries of his companions.

Eragon Shadeslayer looked at the approaching man with a calm gaze, his uncovered eye betraying no panic or alarm. Reaching out a hand, he grabbed the soldier's arm and twisted him to the ground with such ease it was terrifying.

Eyes rolling into the back of his head, the man lost conscious from the pain almost immediately. The Shur'tugal set him down gently.

There was a rustle among the streets of Belatona. No one wished to be the first to charge first, after seeing the obvious gap in power. And yet, everyone knew that with every second wasted the Varden neared the city even more.

"The Varden are almost at these gates." The rider yelled to all the men in front of him. "If you surrender, you will be spared and treated well. If you do not, death is your only fate. Why fight for the wrong cause and die, rather than make the right choice when one still can?"

"Who's to say our cause is the wrong one!" barked another man, who seemed to be a captain. "You are the rebels, not us! You are the side stirring up war, not us! I do not know what ugly lies you had fed to the people of the south, but it was since the Varden started the war—"

"You refuse to surrender then?" Eragon Shadeslayer interrupted calmly. "You are sure that yours is the right path?"

"Yes. And I will strike down any craven who kneels down to you myself." Growled the captain.

"I do not wish to kill." Eragon held out his sword before him. "But I will if I must. This is your last chance. I will guard these gates with my life until the Varden arrives, as will these men with me."

There was no reply. With a single gesture from their captain, the men behind him surged forwards with a raw throated battle cry. Steel clashed and screams of pain rang throughout the night as battle was joined. The handpicked warriors of the Varden, and the guards of Belatona. The torch flames flickered, and Gerreld heard the dragon roar as blue flames burned.

Slowly but steadily, the gates started to open. The elves had walked out of the tower with impassive faces, showing no sign of satisfaction or joy. Drawing their own respective weapons, they too leapt into the bloody battle that was underway before the entrance to the city.

It looked like a scene of hell, Gerrald decided. Like all the others he had seen. It had been a term long overused by bards and storytellers, but nothing else he thought of could fit the description so perfectly.

This was war. No glory, no bravery, no skill. Just a wild, barbaric dance in the firelight, a fight to the death between hordes of animals. If the bards had truly seen a battle, would they still sing of it so gleefully in front of village after village? Would they be able to wipe the nightmares out of their minds when they slept?

Seeking an enemy, he saw a Varden on the corner of the battlefield, pulling his sword out of man he had slain. Raising his own blade, Gerreld raced at him with a feral scream at his lips.

The thickness of the scent in the air was enough to make a grown man gag. The crimson liquid was everywhere. And every time Gerreld stepped forwards he could feel the cooling flesh under his boots. This… was a thing to be cursed, not to be sung about, or made into poetry.

Their blades met with a flash of sparks. The man he had just attacked seemed to be around twenty years of age, wearing an expression of defiance. Exactly like him, five years ago.

Why was war such a thing of beauty in lore or myth? Why was such a hell praised as heaven itself?

His opponent bashed at him with his shield, throwing him off balance. Stumbling, he stepped on a body that did not have a head.

A gleam of blue caught his eye.

Standing where he had stood from the beginning, Eragon Shadeslayer had not moved a step ever since the battle began. Around him was more bodies than one could count. The blade he held in his hand looked breathtaking, like a ray of the pure moon itself. Faster than a striking snake, with precision more horrifying than an eagle, his sword spun and slashed. Under the silver light, it seemed as if was made of mercury.

There it was. A legend brought to life once again, what the champions and kings of old represented. The pinnacle of one's achievements, worthy enough to be remembered for the centuries to come. A hero.

And Gerreld hated heroes.

Holding his sword tightly in his hand, he thrusted at his opponent. The soldier parried the jab and countered with a slash overhead.

Heroes represented the majestic side of war, with their nigh impossible feats, their charisma, their acts of kindness. They were a point all people strived for, the righteousness, power and divinity that was almost always hidden in humans. They were glory. They were triumph. They were what tales were made of.

Blocking the blow with difficulty, Gerreld made a clumsy feint to the left. The soldier fell for it the trick, to his surprise, but he did not hesitate in pulling out his dagger and piercing the man's torso.

Gurgling something unintelligible, the soldier fell to the ground, the defiance in those grey orbs fading like embers from a forgotten fire. Blood flowed onto the ground. Gerreld left him there, looking around for another person to duel.

And those heroic legends were _utter trash_. War did not have a majestic side. It was hell. And killing men, for no matter what cause, was nothing close to righteous.

A sword slashed at his side, and Gerreld barely noticed it in time. Turning around, he saw that it was a man who had obviously seen about as many winters as he had. And in the same way. Those eyes were empty.

Heroes, with their brilliance and fame, blinded the people into thinking war as a stage. A stage in which they could finally stand out, and become a legend. How many young fools have died for this illusion? Millions throughout the ages, and more to come. Tyrants or Urgals were nothing compared to them.

Gerreld hated them only the more when he found that he had fallen into this hell because he was once one of the fools as well.

After a few attacks, he saw an opening left untended for. His opponent was weary. Moving faster than the man expected, he drove his sword into the soldier's stomach.

As the man crumpled onto the ground, Gerreld had already pulled free his sword and moved even deeper into the battle.

The rider did not seem to be quite as dauntless as he had been during the start of the fight. Bloodstained and panting, he was standing in an awkward stance, as if one of his legs could not support his weight.

There was his chance.

He could feel his heart beating as he neared the Shur'tugal. Eragon Shadeslayer was battling four men at once, and was entirely concentrated on the duel. Roran Stronghammer was a bowshot away, struggling with the same number and unable to notice anything else. If he could manage to wound the already crippled rider…

Moving beyond the shadeslayer's vision, he readied his sword and began to run quietly.

There were twenty paces between them. If he could—

A roar shocked him out of his thoughts. Half a moment later he crashed into the hard rock of the wall, his chest armor completely dented and torn. He tried to breathe, but no air would come.

He tried to speak, but no words could be willed out. They stopped as his lips, and came out in only a whimper.

Ah, the dragon. How could he have forgotten? The dragon who was always circling above the rider, killing any that approached the gates.

Blood was trickling out of his mouth. It was like those nightmares he had after his first few battles. Dreams in which he passed over into the void, and no one noticed his going.

_Hmm?_

A figure was stooping over him. He forced his blurry vision to focus, but it refused to. But strangely enough, the more he relaxed his eyes the better the image came into clarity. The other objects disappeared from his view, and the only thing he could see was her.

It was Mariel.

She was amazingly beautiful, down to every detail he remembered. Like on the day of their wedding.

Unfamiliar sounds were at his ears. Something about the Varden, and frantic shouts of desperation. Someone saying that they had reached the gates.

What in hellfire they meant, Gerreld did not want to know. He only looked up at Mariel.

She bent over him with a small, sad smile, and gently pressed her lips against his.

As even she began to fade, an amusing thought reached his dimming mind.

That even in the end, he had been a fool.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

SIEGE OF BELATONA: COMPLETE (crosses it out from the "To-do" List)

Honestly, I had struggled many times on how I would present this chapter. Originally, it would be from Roran's perspective; but when I reached my seven hundredth word, I looked it over and thought:

This is utter BS.

My original version had groups of people around the city creating diversions and using Orrin's explosives to blow the walls to kingdom come. Hence the "burying exploding devices" reference.

Ok, laugh at me. I know I deserve it.

So I settled on using a soldier of the Empire as the perspective point. A true soldier, not one picked off the farms and handed a sword, but a professional (In a way…)

And of course…

I am terribly sorry! (Goes down on all fours and starts begging readers not use those baseball bats) I know it isn't an excuse, but a lot of things happened recently and delayed this story for… uh… a full month…

1. School anniversary.

2. Drama competition.

3. A serious cold.

4. And me playing World of Warcraft to relax instead of updating like a good author should.

So I'm very, very sorry, and I will update as soon as possible. And I hope that you'd enjoyed this chapter. Longest one I ever typed after all.

Please review!

P.S. And almost forgot… Happy New Year!


	13. Red Tears

Chapter 13: Red Tears

An irritating buzzing sound woke Eragon from his sleep. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he grumbled and looked over to the object that had disturbed his rest.

Ah. Through force of habit, he had wound Oromis' time piece the night before. With a sardonic smile, he turned it off and breathed in deeply, feeling the crisp morning air fill his lungs.

The sun had risen, and his bed was covered with a soft warm glow, light seeping like gold into his tent. A true moment of peace that he hadn't felt for many, many days.

_Eragon._

He closed his eyes and grinned to himself. _Yes, Saphira?_

_Why are you up so early, little one? Nasuada had said before that you could rest today._

With a small yawn, Eragon rose from his bed, wincing as the small unhealed injuries from yesterday night bit at his nerves. As carefully as he could, he pulled on his boots and walked out his tent with a very noticeable limp. Bandages were still all over his body.

_I told you before that joining that battle was a very unwise idea. _Chided his dragon. _Now you can barely stand._

The rider shrugged. _Because of my appearance, the city was taken much faster than it would have been without. These wounds mean nothing._

He heard Saphira sigh in his mind. _Little one, the moment you were able to hold a sword you immediately made the hasty decision to join Roran's reckless plan. What if you died in yesterday's attempt?_

_I didn't._

_And what if you did?_

_Do you remember Angela's prophecy? _Asked Eragon as he walked between the tents, sneaking this way and that to avoid meeting any patrolling soldiers. _She predicted that I would live a long life, much longer than is normal for humans. There is no death for me in the near future, else the prophecy would be made void._

Saphira was silent for a while. Eragon could not tell if her sudden quietness was due to frustration or her shock at overlooking such an important fact.

_You could have been captured. _She said quietly. There was a tinge of something in her voice, but Eragon could not tell what. Was it anger? Fear? Worry?

_Unless Murtagh or Galbatorix combat me directly, I doubt that there is a chance for me to be captured by some nameless soldier. _Moving swiftly and covering his face partially with his sleeve, he made his way past a company of men unnoticed. _You cannot deny that._

_And what if they had come?_

_Murtagh and Thorn are still in Uru'baen and seem to be still recuperating from their injuries. If Galbatorix wished to combat me himself, then it would not matter if I was injured or not._

_There are many problems with that thinking of yours, little one. If—_

"Oh ho ho, look who we have here!"

A huge arm clasped him around his shoulders and Eragon hid a grimace. He had been hoping to be able to walk past the man unnoticed once he had noticed his aura, but…

"That was quite the show you gave us last night, Shadeslayer!" Roared Fredric in delight. "Twirling, slashing, splitting apart bodies with more ease than breathing! It was as if I was looking at Death himself at work before those gates!"

Eragon smiled. "Just something that a rider should do."

"Oh, don't be so humble." The weapons master patted him on the back. "You and your cousin were like heroes in epics and legends, carving down soldiers faster and more ferociously than a Spine devil. Blood flows differently in Carvahall, I see."

"It… it was nothing. A Shur'tugal is expected to do so. My only regret is that we couldn't have taken the city in a more peaceful way." The rider scratched his head. "It bothers me on how some people serve the king with such loyalty. I don't think I ever will understand."

Fredric nodded furiously. "Mind-battered, the lot of them. All fools ready to be sent to their deaths by the high and mighty king. Weak minded bastards."

Then it came; a slight stir in the back of his mind, nearly too minute for him to feel. Like a hair trailing teasingly across his back. What followed, was undeniably the sound of laughter.

The chuckle lasted only for a moment, but would be forever frozen in the rider's memory. It was cold, cynical, and cruel beyond Eragon's imagination. A vicious tone that sent shivers down his spine.

"Oh? And are we all so different?" whispered the harsh, amused voice.

Eragon whirled around, seeking the source. But he saw, and felt, no one.

"Argetlam?" asked Fredric cautiously. His hand shifted to the hilt of his great sword.

"No matter. Must have been the wind." Eragon thinned his lips. He somehow knew the voice, but whose it was escaped him.

Fredric relaxed, his hand returning to his side. A broad grin appeared on his face.

"We live in troubled times. We're bound to get a little tense after so many kills." He laughed heartily. "Well, I won't be keeping you Argetlam. I'll be off!"

Eragon faked a chuckle. "May your future battles be filled with glory, Fredric."

"And yours as well, Argetlam."

As the two parted ways, Eragon could not shake a feeling of unease in his gut. He knew the voice somehow, recognized it, he knew it was familiar. But he still couldn't think of whom it belonged to.

_Eragon? _Saphira's voice was questioning.

_It was nothing._ The rider mumbled, mostly to himself. Regaining his pace with halting steps, he continued to wander.

It wasn't the words that he heard that bothered him; he had heard plenty of such things from the mouths of people loyal to the Empire. It was the certainty in it, and the pain that was imbedded into its core. A sarcastic remark gave by a person going to be hanged, or a dying croak from a person with a blade to the heart. That was what it felt like.

Without warning, his feet crumpled beneath him. To say that he was surprised was an understatement. He had not known that his limbs were so weak that a little stroll would drain all the remaining strength from them.

"Guh!" He barely managed to keep his face from hitting the dusty ground.

_Eragon!_

_I'm alright, Saphira. I simply—_

_--misjudged your strength. _Saphira finished for him with a growl. _You always were careless with your own body when it came to things like this. Don't you remember? Master… master Oromis noted from the state of your hands that you fought and acted like a berserker. And that—_

_I don't fight like a berserker. _Objected Eragon as he managed to pull himself against a tent and leaned himself against it. _You know that._

_It doesn't matter if you don't. What matters is that you have wounds and scars akin to one. You disregard your own safety, and use excuses to make them seem justified. That is the undeniable truth, and _you_ know that._

_I value my life! Who does not?_

"Eragon?"

_Do you value your life when you get into that fury of yours? You would jump into hordes of Urgals, duel hopeless duels, and just a few days ago you took a blow for Arya!_

_Would you rather she died? _The rider shouted.

"Eragon."

_What if one day, you fail in your attempts? The entire Varden will fall, without any question. People will be killed in great numbers. And it wouldn't be because of Galbatorix or Murtagh. The fault would be yours._

_I don't—_

"Eragon!"

Startled out of his trance-like state, the rider gave a small cry of alarm, hurriedly refocused his eyes and gazed at the figure leaning over him in concern.

It was Arya.

Trying to even his breaths, Eragon put a hand over his chest and looked warily away from the elf's worried glance.

"Uh… yes, Arya Svit-Kona?" asked Eragon.

Brushing away a few stray strands of hair from her face, Arya kneeled down and placed her hand to his forehead. Her touch was cool against his skin, and he resisted the urge to shirk away.

"You were sitting against my tent, staring out into space. What happened to you?"

Eragon blinked. "Your… tent?"

The elf raised her eyebrow a fraction. It was nearly unnoticeable, but Eragon barely caught the movement.

"Yes. You did not know?"

"Well… I…"

So his wandering, listless steps had taken him, of all places. Something in him sighed, and he smiled wearily to himself. So that was how his heart was.

No matter how he wished otherwise, the truth was there; he knew nigh nothing about the elven princess. Everything he knew about her seemed only the cover of a book; a tome exotic, beautiful, alluring beyond compare. What little more he knew of her was simply snatches of sentences between the pages, a pitiful patchwork that was her image in his mind.

She was cold. She was cruelly analytical.

And no matter how he tried to resist it, how he tried to despise her, how he tried to discard his feelings…

The elf frowned and touched his legs with slim fingers, testing them.

"You cannot walk now, can you?" came her quiet question.

The rider hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly. "I seem to have been overconfident with my extent of recovery. I should have stayed in my tent."

"That you should have."

Arya looked up slightly and furrowed her brows, as if contemplating an important decision. Then she held out her hand, motioning for Eragon to grasp it.

"You could rest in my tent, if you wished. After all, you had come this far." She remarked dryly. "It would be discourteous not to invite such an esteemed guest indoors when he is in such a pinch."

"Arya Svit-Kona, I wouldn't like to intrude—"

"And you wouldn't. I have nothing to occupy myself with at the moment, nothing to pass the time on this dreary day. As you might know, Nasuada had given me orders to rest as well."

"She has?" Eragon asked as Arya pulled him upright. "I thought that she would be in need of your wisdom."

Arya glanced at him. "She is not a child any longer, and can handle her own affairs. And if you were attempting to mock me…"

"I wasn't." replied Eragon with a nervous laugh. "The truth is what I speak."

The elf suddenly tensed beside him. But then she relaxed, and an unreadable look came across her face.

_I say unreadable now… and yet one year before, that was the only word that I could use to describe any of her expressions. _Eragon bit back a wry smile. _Saphira must be speaking to her._

After a few moments, she nodded slightly to herself and glanced over to Eragon with a stern face.

"So that is the reason you were quarreling?"

"Quarreling is too strong a term." Objected the rider. "We were merely discussing some things that we disagreed about."

Arya ran a hand through her raven black hair, pursing her lips. "You are unbelievably stubborn. But perhaps that is a trait that will be helpful in the future."

Eragon blinked, surprised. He had been preparing himself for a long lecture, but to think that the elf had let the matter drop so soon. Or had she?

"Come in. I have been brewing tea."

Leading the rider inside her tent, Arya walked over to the teapot sitting on her table and poured out two mugs of the steaming liquid. Handing one to Eragon as he sat down, she sipped from her own and sat on the chair opposite.

"I am grateful for your hospitality, Arya Svit-Kona." murmured Eragon, bowing his head slightly in gratitude.

"It is simply what a friend should do to help another. Nothing more."

"But still…" The rider tasted the tea and his eyes widened. "Incredible. I don't think that I have ever drunk anything that was made to this perfection."

"You flatter me."

"Only the truth passed my lips, Arya Svit-Kona."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the elf's face, and she set her cup down on the table.

"You were very impressive last night." She said, calmly locking her gaze with his. "You have clearly grown much since we first met. So much it would seem impossible."

Yes… last night was different from all his previous battles. It was like living in a waking dream; his sword had grown itself onto him like an extension of his limb, moving with such fluidity that shocked even himself. Every step he took was a dance, leaves swaying in the wind.

"I have had good masters teaching me. And in my position, it would be sin in itself not to progress as fast as I can manage." Eragon replied with a small grin.

Arya shook her head slowly.

"No, Eragon. It is obvious that you have extraordinary talent. In the span of less than three years you have reached a level that many elves had taken decades to achieve. I can say without doubt that you are among the finest swordsmen in Ellesmera, judging from what I have seen yesterday."

Eragon fought hard not to let the surprise show on his face. "But most elves have had centuries to hone their skills! Surely I cannot have climbed to their rank."

"Dragons choose their riders according to the needs of their entire race, and that of the Shur'tugal." Arya wrapped her slender fingers around the mug to warm them from the winter chill. "And you most possibly are one of the best choices for them in all of Alagaesia. That is why you are so proficient in the areas where you are needed the most. Before long, you could surpass anyone."

"Even you?"

Arya laughed, a twinkle of silver bells. "You still think of me as your final goal to cross?"

"I have not yet seen anyone that surpasses you." Answered Eragon. "And I have already defeated Vanir, after all."

Arya looked at him in astonishment. "You did? When?"

"Before we left for the Burning Plains, Vanir and I sparred one last time. The first time that I had ever bested him in swordsplay, but I am confident that I can do so again."

"Vanir uses a sword?" Arya leaned back into her chair, deep in thought. "That is different from what I know… but though unlikely, we might be talking about different people. You say that you have sparred with him in the past?"

"As part of Ebrithil's lessons, yes." A pang of grief emerged in his heart, and he tried to ignore it. But a trace of the sadness must of shown on his face, for Arya's features softened.

"Many people have died for this war." She said quietly. "I can understand your urge to fight for their cause, the eagerness to push yourself to the limit for the sake of others. But it simply isn't the right thing to do."

"Saphira—"

"Saphira is right." Said Arya firmly. "And you know that, but are too stubborn to try to understand."

"I am a soldier of the Varden, and an enemy of the Empire. It is—"

Arya shook her head. "No. First and foremost, you are a rider. You are hope itself for every person that wishes to free himself from Galbatorix's rule. And therefore, you must not treat your life so lightly."

Eragon sighed. "I don't see my life as something worthless. I value it, as you do yours and as everyone does."

"Nevertheless, I wish for you to promise on it. As a request from a friend, nothing more." Arya leaned forward and looked hard into his eyes. "But it is something that I would like you to do."

The rider said nothing. But not because he wished to refuse.

A trickle of liquid was sliding down the right side of his face, nearly unnoticeable. At first, he thought they were tears. But when he brought them before his eyes, he was shocked.

Crimson.

Without another word, he collapsed and fell from his chair. He didn't even feel his impact with the ground.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Yearning. There was a yearning for something, but he did not know what. How it maddened him could not be described by mere letters and words. Like a constant itch he could not scratch, a dim whisper at the back of his mind he could feel but not hear clearly. He was always on the constant brim of realization, and yet it always eluded him.

Breathing was hard, so extremely hard. Every rise and fall of his chest felt like trying to lift a mountain. His eyes burned in their sockets.

He knew what it was he longed for. He knew he did. But it was like trying to grab a blossom's reflection out of a mirror, or fishing for the moon in a dark lake. The answer always drifted away as he neared it, taunting him. Forever hanging out of his reach.

Thirst. He was a dying man on a parched plain, searching for something that could wet his throat. Crawling along the ground, fumbling as he clumsily moved forward. There was something that could save him from this torture in an instant, but he did not know what. It was in many ways, worse than the hunger itself.

He ran a tongue over his lips, drawing some comfort from the familiar texture. But another wave of his urge swept over him, and he whimpered as if being whipped.

"I…" he breathed, a desperate whisper.

Sweat was beading on his brow. His palms were wet as he placed them against the wall to steady himself. His body felt so hot.

It was like a sexual desire. Frustration and irritation was in every part of his being, and he scratched and clawed at his body to rid himself of them. Bloody furrows appeared everywhere as he slashed at his skin mercilessly, seeking to drive out the craving.

It did not work. It only excited him, aroused him further.

"I…!" He gasped to himself.

He clawed at the wall, his fingers dyeing the stone red with the blood seeping from his nails. This had never happened before. He had had plenty of nightmares before, but it had been almost completely cured many days past. What was wrong with him?

He knew what he wanted to do. He knew he did. He just needed that final push in the right direction, to find himself and what he wanted.

Opening the door of his room, he wandered aimlessly down the magnificent hallways, stumbling several times as he did. Everything seemed like a distorted image to him, so unreal and fabricated. He encountered no guards, but he pushed the queer fact out of his mind. The only thing that mattered was finding what he wanted.

The floor under his feet was throbbing in unison with his heartbeat. In a daze, he steadied himself against the wall. With slightly firmer steps, he continued on.

_I have to do something. Something important. _His vision blurred in and out of focus, but it did not bother him much. It was a small thing compared to what he had in mind.

Breathing hard, he found that he had somehow walked out of the side gates of the palace. _Why was that?_ He wondered to himself. With a lopsided shrug, he dismissed the thought and looked around. Something clicked in his mind, and he decided to choose one of the dark alleys at his right to enter.

His paces were becoming strangely smoother, settling into a cat like grace, footsteps silent to human ears. His hand settled on the hilt of his sword, and he looked around. He could smell something pungent.

There. A drunkard, slumped against the wall, barely conscious. He was muttering something under his breath, but Murtagh could care less about what he said.

It was a pity. Such scum…

However, a near maniacal grin spread cruelly across his face even as his vision steadily faded.

_He saw a woman laughing._

_What about, he didn't know. But he did know that it meant that the woman was happy. And if she was happy, he was. He had rarely seen her like this._

_The smile on her face looked… strained, for the lack of a better word. But not because it was fake; rather, it seemed to be because the woman was still not used to laughing so openly._

_A man about forty years of age was laughing with her, with huge booming chuckles so loud that in the back of his mind he idly wondered if the entire castle would come down upon them if he continued. But before he knew it, he had joined in, his childish little giggles filling the room with even more joy._

_This, he decided, was where he belonged. Nowhere else gave him such a sense of safety and warmth. Most of the people he met outside of here were either falsely nice, or scorned him silently with their gazes._

_He never knew why. He hadn't done anything wrong. Neither had father, as far as he knew. Why did they treat his father so?_

_The door opened behind him, with the familiar smell of leather, steel and burnt wood. He could feel large arms wrapping themselves around his body._

_Why did they treat his father so?_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sorry for the extremely late update. Been away recently on some trips... the more knowledgable of you may know why. And a writer's block that stumped me for more than a week.

So... please tell me what you think. It didn't come out nearly as good as I wanted it to be, but I thought that I had gone to long without updating. And I don't think I would be able to change much, anyway.


	14. Tliatera Grass

Chapter 14: Tliatera Grass

_At first, there was just a small heat at the back of his mind. Caught up in his own confused thoughts, he paid it no heed._

_But then, it slowly grew. Before he could feel alarm or fear, it became a blazing inferno, a torrent of emotions that stretched years past he was born into this world. It was a colorless whirlwind, containing only the total blackness of despair._

_Bitterness. Resentment. Vehemence. Fury. Anguish. Desolation. Melancholy. Woe._

_It was chaotic, lacking any sense of order. The rage and despair that roared within its depths went beyond the comprehension of humans, and it would stay that way. It was the torment of a divine race far above any other, the truest blood of Alagaesia._

_He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth. He wanted to weep, but he had no eyes. He wanted to run, but the only thing he could do was to stay there in the midst of the shrieking maelstrom._

_How much longer would his sanity hold? Or had it already long been ground away?_

"Eragon…"

_It was an endless spinning, spinning, spinning--_

"Eragon…!"

The rider opened his eyes. The soothing color of tent fabric greeted him, and he stared upward wearily. It was strange how comforting the dull sight could be after he had been through such a hellish torment.

"Eragon!"

Arms encircled him and he managed to find the strength to gasp for air. It shocked him how amazingly _weak_ he felt. Moving his fingers were the most he could do, and with effort he managed to look at the person who was holding him.

_Nasuada?_

At the side of his bed were several other high-ranking Varden generals, as well as all of the Varden's council members. Strangely, none of them seemed to be scandalized by their leader's actions; rather, they looked as if they themselves wanted to collapse in relief. Jormundur was smiling weakly, while Orrin was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief despite the cold weather.

"What… happened?" His voice was small and hoarse.

"You nearly died, Eragon. Even Angela said it was up to you whether you survived the night."

Eragon turned his head towards the speaker, wincing as the muscles in his neck screamed in protest. Roran was leaning against a chair, his expression hidden by shadows.

"…Died?"

"Aye." Roran did not move from where he stood. "It shocked everyone. I've never seen Arya look so distressed. Speaking of which, you should thank her. If it weren't her that was by your side when it happened, we would all be attending a funeral now."

It made no sense. All he remembered was seeing red, and then… nothing. Nothing but the dream that seemed to go on for a lifetime.

"Awake now, eh?"

Everyone turned their heads to look at the person who had just entered the tent. It was Angela. Following closely behind her was Trianna, who had a worried look spread across her face.

Sitting down beside him with a tired smile, the witch leaned close and put a hand on Eragon's forehead.

"And how are you feeling, Eragon?"

The rider tried to laugh, but all that came out was a pitiful croak. It was somewhat amusing in a way; just a few days before he was a god upon the battlefield, laying low anyone who dared stand before him. Now he was unable to breathe too fast in fear of his veins bursting from the pressure. Or so his entire body felt.

"Awful." He mumbled.

"I would be surprised if you said anything else. You may recover faster than anyone that I've ever seen, but even you couldn't take such punishment without feeling like you've been shoved up a toad's ass. Frog, I mean." Her hands moved to his wrist, and felt for his pulse. "Ah. Weak, but steady. That means that you have more than a good chance to get out of this affair uncrippled."

"Angela, wha—"

"Hush, hush. Questions can come later, and come later they will." Fumbling in her pouch, the witch produced a small roll of herbs about the size of a bean. It had the smell of fresh wildflowers.

"Here. Open up."

Eragon did so hesitantly, and nearly gagged as the bundle was forcibly thrust into his mouth. It took all his remaining will power not to spit it out.

"The gods, Angela? What is this? It tastes horrible!"

The witch waggled her finger at him and continued to search for things in her pouch.

"Oh, do not be so hasty to judge things from first glance or taste, Shadeslayer. Wait and see, wait and see. And don't swallow it until I say so."

Holding his tongue, Eragon grimaced as the bitter juices from the herbs spread everywhere inside his mouth. It was disgusting in every aspect; the taste alone was enough, but added with the smell and the odd texture of the…

Then, it was all bliss.

A wave of pleasure. The scent of fine wine at his nose, nectar at his lips, a tint of haziness that spoke of faelnirv drinking beforehand. Flowers blooming in his heart, energy spreading like fire into his limbs. A confidence and arrogant pride that he could do anything and everything—

Then, it all faded.

Dazed, Eragon sat up and clutched his head as a bought of dizziness struck him. He felt completely emptied and hollow; after going through so many breathtaking sensations at once, having them evaporate like sun-dried dew was not something altogether enjoyable.

Still, he would never forget what he had experienced. Never.

"Now, swallow it." Came Angela's stern voice.

Eragon obliged, and felt the wet lump slide down his throat. With a shaking hand, he wiped the sweat off of his forehead and slowly sank back into his bed with a sigh.

"What… what was that?" whispered the rider weakly.

Angela looked over at him in surprise. "You've never heard of this herb before? I am sure that the elves must have included it in your studies. And after experiencing it first hand, it certainly can't be mistaken for anything else. "

"I can't agree with you more." Eragon coughed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "However… I can't think of anything that fits. Nothing."

"You really don't know?"

"I could probably remember if given enough time, but—"

"Then don't bother. You aren't in a well enough state to think yet." Angela smiled slightly, her crooked grin reflecting the candlelight. "It is called Tliatera grass, more commonly known as 'Love's Curse'. A name given to it by various human herbalists, and for a good reason indeed. Because--"

Eragon's eyes widened in rememberance. "Tliatera grass?" He cut in. "Isn't that--"

"A poison, a drug and also a hallucinogen." The witch finished for him. "But it is only deadly until the third wave of its effects, and only if one keeps it in his mouth until then. Until then, it's just an herb that restores vitality. But too many ignorant people have died tasting it, immersing themselves in the pleasure until it was too late."

"And you were sure that giving it to him was a good idea?" hissed Nasuada. Standing up, she smoothed down the creases in her dress and glared at the witch. "I think that you are growing too bold for your own good, Angela."

Angela waved off the comment with a chuckle. "No one is going to die under my watch, unless the gods want his soul personally."

Nasuada did not seem convinced, but she relented reluctantly. "Very well then. But I would ask you to refrain from doing such acts in the future." Clapping her hands, the lady of the Varden brought the men in her tent to her attention. "We shall leave now, as Shadeslayer clearly is in need of rest. May the spirits make his a speedy recovery."

The commanders grunted their agreements and filed silently out of the tent. Being the trained soldiers they were, they said nothing, but relief was written all over their faces.

Eragon stilled himself and fought back the urge to squirm in discomfort. Every expression told him of what he had done. Though not intentionally, he had shaken the roots of the entire Varden in a single night, though many of the commoners did not know it. He knew that Nasuada was competent enough to keep the secret of his near death well sealed.

The Varden were already a fragile entity. And he just had to get himself into this state, threatening to tear it all down.

Nasuada seemed to notice his distress and smiled tiredly at him. Before the rider could decipher what it had meant, his liege lady had already left the tent, her loyal soldiers in tow. Roran followed them out with silent steps, with a small gesture of farewell made in Eragon's direction.

Angela winked at him, and not bothering to conceal her weariness, yawned and wandered out the tent. "Call if you need me!" came her distant voice moments later. Though tired, it seemed that she had reclaimed her inner vigor and the rider smiled at that.

Eragon loosened his muscles and sagged down onto the mattress. Though he was now alone, there was still too much that he didn't know. Angela didn't seem to want to tell him why he had fainted, and Nasuada seemed to think that it was simply because all of his old wounds had caught up with him. Somehow, he doubted that. He knew his body well enough to over exert himself to this extent.

There was a rustle at the edges of the tent. It was barely noticeable, but even in the state he was now, he could hear it. Someone else was in here. Someone that had not left the tent with the others.

A sense of wariness coming over him, the rider sat up with effort and looked at his surroundings. Nothing was moving, except for the wavering candle that had been placed on a table.

Then without any warning at all, a hand reached out of the darkness and grasped his throat.

Eragon choked at the unexpected attack, and was immediately pressed back onto the bed by the frightening strength of his attacker. Gritting his teeth, he tried to pry the fingers off him, but there was utterly nothing he could do.

The two locked in a silent struggle, the rider realized that his life was truly in peril. He couldn't make a sound, his mind was too weary to contact any others and he himself was weaker in strength than a common footman. If he didn't think of something soon—

"Now do you understand why you must use your common sense and listen to us?" A harsh, female voice whispered.

Eragon blinked. The hand around his throat clenched tight for one last moment before removing itself.

"Ar… Arya?"

"If I were an assassin of the Empire, I would have had your life right there. Just because you misjudged your abilities. Just because you decided to play the hero and throw our concerns into the dirt!"

Still recovering, Eragon rasped, "Arya, calm down—"

"You wish me to calm down?" Eragon could finally make out the elf's outline as she moved closer to him. "I am afraid I cannot. Our only, measly hope to defeat Galbatorix had nearly entered the void tonight due to his own stupidity. And there is chance that it will happen many more times."

"Please, Ary—"

"Even if you do survive these troubles of yours, do you know how this will affect the Varden? How long will it take for you to recover, for one? Every second of your time is essential for our success. Every minute you lie here, resting, is a loss for the Varden."

"Arya, it is not as serious—"

"It is not as serious as I think? _Not serious, you say_?"

Eragon suddenly had the bizarre urge to light up the entire room with his remaining strength to see what expression the elf wore on her face at this very moment. There was a high possibility that he would be frightened out of his wits, but it was a meager price compared to seeing Arya almost completely without her normal composure.

"Those men outside." She breathed. "Are all gamblers. Every one and last of them, from the lowliest stable boy to the highest ranking generals, from the magicians to the aristocrats. They bet everything they have on the losing side of the board, not in hopes of winning but because they believe that they are doing what is right."

The candlelight flickered, and shadows danced upon the walls.

The rider shifted his gaze uneasily to the side. "I…"

"Yes, you know that. That is why you try so hard. And that is also what you are doing wrong." The elf started pacing around the tent with restless steps. "I can't seem to hammer into you the idea that one cannot fight wars with such impulsiveness… especially someone with your rank and importance. What if you were crippled once more? What if you lost a leg, or an arm? Imagine the impact it would bring upon the entire Alagaesian populace! Not to mention death…!"

"Arya, I don't even know what happened to me." Eragon spoke up, voice pained. "I doubt that this was caused by my… impulsiveness, as you put it. Have you ever known of any person that had died in the same way I nearly did?

"What other reason could have caused it?" Arya hissed back. "Through the ages, magicians had always their own symptoms of spellwork overuse. Yours just happened to be more unique than the rest."

"Unique? I nearly _died, _Arya. That's far from just being unique!"

"Quiet!"

The word had an astounding effect on Eragon. It was filled with an aura of superiority, a voice that was familiar to power and command; he had heard traces of the feeling in Ajihad or Hrothogar, but none this clearly before.

Immediately, he fell silent.

"I will leave you alone for now, for your mind and body are not in a state which we can conduct our talks. But remember that we _will_ have to talk." Arya fixed him one last cool stare before walking slowly out of the tent.

The rider finally found his voice again.

"Wait."

Arya hesitated, and stopped her footsteps. "Yes?"

"I know the effect I would have on the Varden if I died, and in extension I have a picture of what would happen to Alagaesia if I did… but…"

"What?" Arya seemed wary, as if she knew what sort of question would be asked.

"Do you see me more as a friend? Or do you see me more as the hope of the Varden? Or just a foolish farm boy?" Eragon chuckled grimly. "What would you do if I died, princess?"

A multitude of emotions flashed across Arya's face, but they were all unreadable. Her features seemed to have been sculpted from ice.

She turned around, facing away from Eragon.

"I would mourn the death of an important friend, with added grief. Because… that would be another mark of my incompetence and inability to protect."

The sound of her fading footsteps was one of the loneliest sounds the rider had ever heard.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I have no excuses. Curse me and insult me with all you have, for I know that I deserve it. This length of time is a record, even for me.

But before that… tell me what you thought about this chapter :).


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